UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Paul   to, Powell 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 


THE  BIBLIOFIENDS 
DRAWN  BY  OLIVER  HERFORD 


-    THE 

UNPUBLISHABLE 
MEMOIRS 

BY  A.  S.  W.  ROSENBACH 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

MCMXVH 


COPYRIGHT    1917    BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 
BY  THE  VAIL-BALLOU  COMPANY 
BINGHAMTON  -  -  NEW  YORK 


(PS 


TO 

R.  R. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS  i 

THE  THREE  TREES  17 

THE  PURPLE  HAWTHORN  27 

THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  40 

THE  COLONIAL  SECRETARY  53 

IN  DEFENCE  OF  His  NAME  70 

"THE  HUNDRED  AND  FIRST  STORY"  83 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  BREVIARY  97 

THE  EVASIVE  PAMPHLET  115 

THE  GREAT  DISCOVERY  136 

THE  FIFTEEN  JOYS  OF  MARRIAGE  152 


THE   UNPUBLISHABLE 
MEMOIRS 

IT  was  very  cruel. 
He  was  dickering  for  one  of  the 
things  he  had  desired  for  a  life-time. 

It  was  in  New  York  at  one  of  the  fa 
mous  book-stores  of  the  metropolis.  The 
proprietor  had  offered  to  him  for  one 
hundred  and  sixty  dollars — exactly  the 
amount  he  had  in  bank — the  first  and  only 
edition  of  the  "Unpublishable  Memoirs" 
^  of  Beau  Brummel,  a  little  volume  issued 
in  London  in  1790,  and  one  of  two  copies 
known,  the  other  being  in  the  famous 
"hidden  library"  of  the  British  Museum. 

It  was  a  scandalous  chronicle  of  fash 
ionable  life  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
many  brilliant  names  were  implicated 


2     THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

therein;  distinguished  and  reputable  fam 
ilies,  that  had  long  been  honored  in  the 
history  of  England,  were  ruthlessly  de 
picted  with  a  black  and  venomous  pen. 
He  had  coveted  this  book  for  years,  and 
here  it  was  within  his  grasp!  He  had 
just  told  the  proprietor  that  he  would  take 
it. 

Robert  Hooker  was  a  book-collector. 
With  not  a  great  deal  of  money,  he  had 
acquired  a  few  of  the  world's  most  sought- 
after  treasures.  He  had  laboriously 
saved  his  pennies,  and  had,  with  the  magic 
of  the  bibliophile,  turned  them  into  rare 
volumes!  He  was  about  to  put  the  evil 
little  book  into  his  pocket  when  he  was 
interrupted. 

A  large,  portly  man,  known  to  book- 
lovers  the  world  over,  had  entered  the 
shop  and  asked  Mr.  Rodd  if  he  might  ex 
amine  the  Beau  Brummel  Memoirs.  He 
had  looked  at  it  before,  he  said,  but 
on  that  occasion  had  merely  remarked 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS        3 

that  he  would  call  again.  He  saw  the 
volume  on  the  table  in  front  of  Hooker, 
picked  it  up  without  ceremony,  and  told 
the  owner  of  the  shop  that  he  would  pur 
chase  it. 

"Excuse  me,"  exclaimed  Hooker,  "but 
I  have  just  bought  it." 

"What!"  said  the  opulent  John  Fenn,  "I 
came  especially  to  get  it." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Fenn,"  returned  the 
proprietor,  "Mr.  Hooker,  here,  has  just 
said  that  he  would  take  it." 

"Now,  look  here,  Rodd,  I've  always 
been  a  good  customer  of  yours.  I've 
spent  thousands  in  this  very  shop  during 
the  last  few  years.  I'll  give  you  two  hun 
dred  dollars  for  it." 

"No,"  said  Rodd. 

"Three  hundred!"  said  Fenn. 

"No." 

"Four  hundred!" 

"No." 

"I'll  give  you  five  hundred  dollars  for 


4        THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

it,  and  if  you  do  not  take  it,  I  shall  never 
enter  this  place  again!" 

Without  another  word  Rodd  nodded, 
and  Fenn  quickly  grasped  the  little  book, 
and  placed  it  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his 
coat.  Hooker  became  angry  and  threat 
ened  to  take  it  by  bodily  force.  A  scuffle 
ensued.  Two  clerks  came  to  the  rescue, 
and  Fenn  departed  triumphantly  with  the 
secrets  of  the  noble  families  of  Great 
Britain  securely  in  his  possession. 

Rodd,  in  an  ingratiating  manner,  de 
clared  to  Hooker  that  no  money  had 
passed  between  them,  and  consequently 
there  had  been  no  sale.  Hooker,  disap 
pointed,  angry,  and  beaten,  could  do  noth 
ing  but  retire. 

At  home,  among  his  books,  his  anger 
increased.     It  was  the  old,  old  case  of  the 
rich  collector  gobbling  up  the  small  one. 
It  was  outrageous!     He  would  get  even— 
if  it  cost  him  everything.     He  dwelt  long 


and  bitterly  upon  his  experience.  A 
thought  struck  him.  Why  not  prey  upon 
the  fancies  of  the  wealthy!  He  would 
enter  the  lists  with  them;  he  would  match 
his  skill  against  their  money,  his  knowl 
edge  against  their  purse. 

Hooker  was  brought  up  in  the  mystic 
lore  of  books,  for  he  was  the  son  of  a  col 
lector's  son.  He  had  always  been  a  stu 
dent,  and  half  his  time  had  been  spent  in 
the  bookseller's  shops,  dreaming  of  the 
wonderful  editions  of  Chaucer,  of  Shake 
speare,  of  rare  Ben  Jonson,  that  some  day 
he  might  call  his  own.  He  would  now 
secure  the  priceless  things  dearest  to  the 
hearts  of  men,  at  no  cost  to  himself! 

He  would  not  limit  his  choice  to  books, 
which  were  his  first  love,  but  he  would 
help  himself  to  the  fair  things  that  have 
always  delighted  the  soul, — pictures,  like 
those  of  Raphael  and  da  Vinci;  jewels, 
like  Cellini's;  little  bronzes,  like  Dona- 


6        THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

tello's;  etchings  of  Rembrandt;  the  porce 
lains  (True  Ming!)  of  old  China;  the 
rugs  of  Persia  the  magnificent! 

The  idea  struck  him  at  first  as  ludicrous 
and  impossible.  The  more  he  thought  of 
it,  the  more  feasible  it  became.  He  had 
always  been  a  good  mimic,  a  fair  amateur 
actor,  a  linguist,  and  a  man  of  parts.  He 
possessed  scholarly  attainments  of  a  high 
order.  He  would  use  all  of  his  resources 
in  the  game  he  was  about  to  play.  For 
nothing  deceives  like  education! 

And  it  had  another  side — a  brighter, 
more  fantastic  side.  Think  of  the  fun  he 
would  get  out  of  it!  This  appealed  to 
him.  Not  only  could  he  add  to  his  col 
lections  the  most  beautiful  treasures  of 
the  world,  but  he  would  now  taste  the 
keenest  of  joys — he  would  laugh  and  grow 
fat  at  the  other  man's  expense.  It  was 
always  intensely  humorous  to  observe  the 
discomfiture  of  others. 

With  particular  pleasure  Hooker  read 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS        7 

that  evening  in  the  Post  this  insignificant 
paragraph: 

"John  Fenn,  President  of  the  Tenth 
National  Bank  of  Chicago,  departs  for 
home  to-night." 

He  laid  the  paper  down  immediately, 
telephoned  to  the  railroad  office  for  a 
reservation  in  the  sleeping-car  leaving  at 
midnight,  and  prepared  for  his  first  "ban 
quet"  Hooker  shaved  off  his  moustache, 
changed  his  clothes  and  his  accent,  and 
took  the  train  for  Chicago. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  John  Fenn  was 
seated  next  to  him  in  the  smoking-car, 
reading  the  evening  papers.  Hooker 
took  from  his  pocket  a  book  catalogue, 
issued  by  one  of  the  great  English  auction 
houses.  He  knew  that  was  the  best  bait! 
No  book-lover  that  ever  lived  could  resist 
dipping  into  a  sale  catalogue. 

Hooker  waited  an  hour — it  seemed  like 
five.  Fenn  read  every  word  in  the  papers, 
even  the  advertisements.  He  dwelt  long 


8        THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

and  lovingly  over  the  financial  pages,  run 
ning  his  eyes  up  and  down  the  columns  of 
"to-day's  transactions."  He  at  last  fin 
ished  the  perusal,  and  glanced  at  Hooker. 
He  said  nothing  for  awhile,  and  appeared 
restless,  like  a  man  with  money  weighing 
on  his  mind.  This,  of  course,  is  a  very  dis 
tracting  and  unpleasant  feeling.  Several 
times  he  seemed  on  the  verge  of  address 
ing  his  fellow-traveller,  but  desisted  from 
the  attempt.  Finally  he  said : 

"I  see,  friend,  that  you're  reading  one 
of  Sotheby's  catalogues." 

"Yes,"  answered  Hooker,  shortly. 

"You  must  be  interested  in  books,"  pur 
sued  Fenn. 

"Yes,"  was  the  brief  response. 

"Do  you  collect  them?" 

"Yes." 

Fenn  said  nothing  for  five  minutes. 
The  stranger  did  not  appear  to  be  very 
communicative. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  ,  I  am  also  a 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS        9 

book-collector.  I  have  quite  a  fine 
library  of  my  own." 

"Really?" 

"Yes,  I  always  visit  the  shops  when  I  go 
to  New  York.  Here  is  a  rarity  I  picked 
up  to-day." 

The  stranger  expressed  little  interest 
until  Fenn  took  from  his  pocket  the  "Un- 
publishable  Memoirs."  It  was  wrapped 
neatly  in  paper,  and  Fenn  carefully  re 
moved  the  little  volume  from  the  wrap 
pings.  He  handed  it  to  the  man  who 
perused  so  assiduously  the  auction  cata 
logue. 

"How  extraordinary!"  he  cried,  "the 
lost  book  of  old  Brummel.  My  people 
were  acquainted  with  the  Beau.  I  sup 
pose  they  are  grilled  right  merrily  in  it! 
Of  all  places,  how  did  you  come  to  pur 
chase  it  in  the  States?" 

"That's  quite  a  story.  A  queer  thing 
how  I  bought  it.  I  saw  it  the  other  day  at 
Rodd's  on  Fifth  Avenue.  I  did  not  buy 


io      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

it  at  first — the  price  was  too  high. 
Thought  I  would  be  able  to  buy  it  later 
for  less.  This  morning,  I  went  to  see 
Rodd  to  make  an  offer  on  it,  when  I 
found  that  Rodd  had  just  sold  it  to  some 
young  student.  The  confounded  simple 
ton  said  it  belonged  to  him!  What  did 
that  trifler  know  about  rare  books?  Now 
/  know  how  to  appreciate  them." 

"Naturally!"  said  the  stranger. 

"I've  the  finest  collection  in  the  West. 
I  had  to  pay  a  stiff  advance  before  the  pro 
prietor  would  let  me  have  it.  It  was  a 
narrow  squeak, — by  about  a  minute.  The 
young  jackass  tried  to  make  a  scene,  but 
I  taught  him  a  thing  or  two.  He'll  not  be 
so  perky  next  time.  How  my  friends  will 
enjoy  this  story  of  the  killing.  I  can't 
wait  until  I  get  home." 

The  stranger  with  the  freshly-shaven 
face,  the  English  clothes,  and  the  austere 
eyes  did  not  seem  particularly  pleased. 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      n 

"How  extraordinary!"  he  said,  coldly, 
and  returned  to  his  reading. 

Fenn  placed  the  book  in  his  pocket,  a 
pleased  expression  on  his  face,  as  if  he 
were  still  gloating  over  his  conquest.  He 
was  well  satisfied  with  his  day,  so  intellec 
tually  spent  among  the  banks  and  book 
shops  of  New  York! 

"By  the  way,  I  am  acquainted  with  this 
Rodd,"  said  the  Englishman,  after  a 
pause.  "He  told  me  a  rather  interesting 
story  the  other  day,  but  it  was  in  a  way  a 
boomerang.  I  don't  like  that  man's 
methods.  I'll  never  buy  a  book  from 
him." 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  inquisitive  Mr. 
Fenn. 

"Well,  you'd  better  hear  the  tale.  It 
appears  he  has  a  wealthy  client  in  Chicago 
and  he  occasionally  goes  out  to  sell  him 
some  of  his  plunder.  He  did  not  tell  me 
the  name  of  his  customer,  but,  according 


12      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

to  Rodd,  he  is  an  ignoramus  and  knows 
nothing  at  all  about  books.  Thinks  it  im 
proves  his  social  position.  You  know  the 
type.  Last  winter  Rodd  picked  up  for 
fifty  dollars  a  beautifully  illuminated 
copy  of  Magna  Charta  issued  about  a  hun 
dred  years  ago.  It's  a  fine  volume, 
printed  on  vellum,  the  kind  that  Dibdin 
raved  about,  but  always  considered  a 
'plug'  in  England.  Worth  about  forty 
guineas  at  the  most.  You  know  the 
book?" 

Fenn  nodded. 

"Well,  it  worried  Mr.  Rodd  how  much 
he  could  ask  his  Western  patron  for  it. 
He  left  for  Chicago  via  Philadelphia  and 
while  he  was  waiting  in  the  train  there 
he  thought  he  could  ask  two  hundred  dol 
lars  for  it.  The  matter  was  on  his  mind 
until  he  arrived  at  Harrisburg,  where  he 
determined  that  three  hundred  would  be 
about  right.  At  Pittsburgh  he  raised  the 
price  to  five  hundred,  and  at  Canton, 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      13 

Ohio,  it  was  seven  hundred  and  fifty! 
The  more  Rodd  thought  of  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  the  volume,  of  its  glowing  colors 
and  its  lovely  old  binding,  the  more  the 
price  soared.  At  Fort  Wayne,  Indiana, 
it  was  a  thousand  dollars.  When  he  ar 
rived  at  Chicago  the  next  morning,  his 
imagination  having  had  full  swing,  he  re 
solved  he  would  not  under  any  circum 
stances  part  with  it  for  less  than  two  thou 
sand  dollars!" 

"The  old  thief!"  exclaimed  Fenn,  with 
feeling. 

"It  was  a  lucky  thing,"  continued  the 
stranger,  "that  his  client  did  not  live  in 
San  Francisco!" 

At  this  Fenn  broke  forth  into  profanity. 

"I  always  said  that  Rodd  was  an  un 
principled,  unholy,  unmitigated — " 

"Wait  until  you  hear  the  end,  sir,"  said 
the  Englishman. 

"That  afternoon  he  called  on  the  West 
ern  collector.  He  had  an  appointment 


i4      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

with  him  at  two  o'clock.  He  left  Rodd 
waiting  in  an  outside  office  for  hours. 
Rodd  told  me  he  was  simply  boiling. 
Went  all  the  way  to  Chicago  by  special 
request  and  the  brute  made  him  cool  his 
heels  until  four  o'clock  before  he  con 
descended  to  see  him.  He  would  pay 
dearly  for  it.  When  Rodd  showed  him 
the  blooming  book  he  asked  three  thou 
sand  five  hundred  for  it — would  not  take  a 
penny  less — and  he  told  me,  sir,  that  he 
actually  sold  it  for  that  price!" 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  said  Fenn,  hotly. 
"Old  Rodd  is  an  unqualified  liar.  He 
sold  it  for  five  thousand  dollars.  That's 
what  he  did,  the  damn  pirate!" 

"How  do  you  know,  sir?" 

"How  do  I  know,  know,  know!"  he  re 
peated,  excitedly.  "I  ought  to  know! 
I'm  the  fool  that  bought  it!" 

Without  another  word  Fenn  retired  to 
his  stateroom. 


The  next  morning  when  Fenn  arrived  at 
his  office  in  the  Fenn  Building,  he  called 
to  one  of  his  business  associates,  who,  like 
his  partner,  was  interested  in  the  acquisi 
tion  of  rare  and  unusual  books. 

"I  say,  Ogden,  I  have  something  great 
to  show  you.  Picked  it  up  yesterday.  In 
this  package  is  the  wickedest  little  book 
ever  written!" 

"Let  me  see  it!"  said  Mr.  Ogden, 
eagerly. 

Fenn  gingerly  removed  the  paper  in 
which  it  was  wrapped,  as  he  did  not  wish 
to  injure  the  precious  contents.  He 
turned  suddenly  pale.  Ogden  glanced 
quickly  at  the  title-page  for  fear  he  would 
be  seen  with  the  naughty  little  thing  in  his 
hands. 

It  was  a  very  ordinary  volume,  entitled, 
"A  Sermon  on  Covetousness,  a  Critical 
Exposition  of  the  Tenth  Commandment 
by  the  Rev.  Charles  Wesley." 


16      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  John  Fenn. 

"How  the  old  dodge  works,"  said  Rob 
ert  Hooker  to  himself  on  his  way  back  to 
New  York.  "The  duplicate  package, 
known  since  the  days  of  Adam!  And 
how  easy  it  was  to  substitute  it  under  his 
very  eyes!  I  shall  call  Beau  Brummel's 
'Unpublishable  Memoirs'  number  one  in 
my  new  library." 


THE  THREE  TREES 

IN  the  famous  cabinet  of  John  Bull  Ste 
vens  was  a  superb  impression  of  Rem 
brandt's  celebrated  etching,  "The  Three 
Trees."  It  was  the  only  copy  known  in 
what  print  collectors  chose  to  term  "the 
first  state."  This  exquisite  work  of  art 
had  only  recently  been  discovered  in  Am 
sterdam  by  a  world-renowned  critic,  and 
promptly  sold  at  a  fabulous  price  to  the 
American  enthusiast.  It  had  several 
lines  from  right  to  left  in  the  middle  tree 
that  had  never  been  noticed  in  any  other 
copy;  the  etching,  according  to  the  earlier 
authorities,  had  existed  in  but  one  state. 

To  the  uninitiated  all  this  disturbance 
about  a  few  lines  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
seemed  unintelligible  and  ridiculous,  but 
to  the  print  collectors  it  was  considered  a 

17 


i8      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

magnificent  "find,"  ranking  with  the  dis 
covery  of  electricity  or  the  Roentgen  rays. 
Periodicals  devoted  to  the  fine  arts  pub 
lished  many  profound  articles  about  the 
unique  "Three  Trees,"  and  one  of  them 
suggested  that  such  an  extraordinary 
treasure  should  repose  in  a  museum, 
where  the  art-loving  public  would  have 
an  opportunity  to  enjoy  its  marvelous 
beauty;  it  was  a  crime  that  it  should  be 
locked  away  forever  in  a  private  resi 
dence. 

Robert  Hooker  was  reading  this  one 
evening  in  the  "Art  Journal"  when  a 
thought  came  to  him.  Why  not  add  this 
immortal  work  of  Rembrandt's  to  his 
museum,  which  at  that  time  existed  only 
in  his  mind?  Why  not  appropriate  this 
etching  and  place  it  securely  under  lock 
and  key,  awaiting  the  time  when  it  would 
be  freely  offered  to  the  gaze  of  the  public 
in  an  institution  to  be  proudly  called  after 
his  name? 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      19 

He  had  already  some  tangible  things  to 
put  therein, — the  famous  "Unpublishable 
Memoirs"  of  Beau  Brummel  from  the 
Fenn  collection;  the  "Kann"  rug;  and  a 
few  other  wonderful  curiosities  that  he 
had  "borrowed"  from  celebrated  ama 
teurs  as  the  nucleus  of  a  loan  collection 
in  his  mythical  museum.  The  "Three 
Trees"  should,  by  right,  bloom  in  his 
own  fair  garden. 

John  Bull  Stevens  was  unapproachable. 
He  did  not  show  his  things.  He  gloated 
over  them  alone,  in  the  most  selfish, 
wicked  manner,  in  his  dark  old  mansion 
on  lower  Fifth  Avenue.  Admission  was 
denied  to  everyone,  except  a  few  intimate 
friends ;  no  one  could  see  the  originals  of 
some  of  the  world's  masterpieces. 

Art  institutes  pestered  him  with  re 
quests  to  examine  this  or  that;  celebrated 
students  everywhere  clamored  for  a  view 
of  Whistler's  portrait  of  John  Bull  him 
self,  or  Gilbert  Stuart's  more  celebrated 


20      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

portrait  of  John  Bull's  grandfather. 
When  curtly  refused  admission  to  his  gal 
leries,  extraordinary  letters  were  written 
him,  full  of  caustic  and  delightful  epi 
thets,  which  had  not  the  slightest  effect 
upon  him.  It  was  said  he  had  no  con 
ception  of  the  universality  of  art,  which 
includes  kings  and  paupers, — wicked, 
rich  collectors  and  virtuous,  poor  stu 
dents! 

To  make  himself  appear  more  human, 
John  Bull  Stevens  at  last  determined  to 
publish  a  catalogue  raisonne  of  his  pic 
tures,  his  drawings,  his  etchings  and  his 
engravings.  He  thought  a  beautiful  re 
production  or  facsimile  would  be  as  satis 
fying  to  the  critics  as  a  view  of  the  orig 
inal. 

Robert  Hooker,  for  one,  did  not  agree 
with  him. 

The  catalogue  was  duly  announced,  to 
be  published  within  the  year  and  pre 
sented  to  the  museums  and  libraries  of 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      21 

this  country  and  Europe.  Photographers 
and  printers,  art  writers  and  reviewers 
were  employed  to  get  up  the  sumptuous 
work. 

Hooker  suddenly  became  imbued  with 
a  passion  for  photography;  he  became  in 
timate  with  the  distinguished  artist  who 
was  to  take  the  pictures  of  the  Stevens  col 
lection. 

Hooker  became  so  much  interested  in 
his  new  work  that  he  offered  his  services 
as  an  assistant,  without  pay  of  course.  It 
was  just  for  the  experience.  Nothing 

more Hooker  spent  one  whole 

morning  in  the  Stevens'  residence  help 
ing  the  celebrated  photographer.  They 
were  to  take  negatives  that  day  of  the  port 
folio  of  seventeenth  century  etchings. 
John  Bull  was  there  of  course,  suspicious 
and  watchful.  The  photograph  of  the 
"Three  Trees"  was  made  the  exact  size  of 
the  superb  original. 

When  this  had  been  successfully  accom- 


22      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

plished,  Hooker,  the  careless  assistant, 
seemingly  nervous  in  the  presence  of  the 
great  collector,  let  fall  the  frame  that  held 
the  great  etching;  the  glass  was  shattered 
and  Stevens  swore  as  many  picturesque 
and  artistic  curses  as  there  were  fragments 
upon  the  floor.  The  assistant  was  prop 
erly  rebuked  and  as  quickly  dismissed ;  the 
unfortunate  Hooker  offered  sixty  cents  to 
pay  for  the  shattered  glass, — which  was 
promptly  accepted!  He  departed,  cov 
ered  with  ignominy  under  the  glances  of 
the  angry  Stevens. 

That  evening  a  plate  was  made  from 
the  negative  by  a  new  intaglio  process. 
All  that  night  on  the  top  floor  of  a  dingy 
building  on  Thirty-ninth  Street  engravers 
worked  on  the  copper,  bringing  out  the 
excellencies  of  a  famous  etching;  old  pa 
per  with  the  watermark  of  1631  had  been 
procured  and  all  that  remained  to  be  done 
was  the  printing.  By  noon  the  next  day  a 
facsimile  had  been  made,  beautiful  as  the 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      23 

original  itself,  as  poetic  and  as  glorious  as 
the  veritable  "Three  Trees." 

But  what  was  to  be  done  with  it,  now 
that  it  had  been  created,  a  true  brother  of 
the  original?  The  fertile  brain  of  Robert 
Hooker  had  long  before  conceived  the 
answer.  The  clumsy  photographer's  as 
sistant  had  deftly  dropped  the  frame  with 
practiced  skill,  leaving  the  etching  un 
touched,  the  glass  alone  being  injured. 
There  is  even  an  art  in  dropping  a  pic 
ture! 

But  before  the  disgraced  apprentice  de 
parted  he  had  heard  Stevens  give  direc 
tions  to  a  faithful  servant:  "Take  that 
carefully  to  Kemble's.  See  that  a  new 
glass  is  put  on  it  and  returned  to  me  to 
morrow,  without  fail!" 

The  next  morning  Hooker  happened  to 
stroll  into  the  picture  galleries,  known 
everywhere  as  "Kemble's,"  and  actually 
purchased  something,  paying  for  it 
with  real  money.  It  came  hard  with 


24      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

him,  for  he  no  longer  liked  to  buy 
things  in  what  he  termed  "the  ordinary 
way." 

He  purchased  for  sixty  dollars  a  little 
etching  by  D.  Y.  Cameron,  and,  strange 
to  say,  not  a  frame  in  that  great  estab 
lishment  suited  him.  One  was  too 
brown  or  too  "antique,"  or  not  the  right 
width;  the  salesman,  who  was  a  good  fel 
low,  became  irritated.  A  whole  hour 
wasted  over  a  three  dollar  frame.  He 
gave  vent  to  his  pent-up  feelings  by  being 
excruciatingly  polite,  which  is  rude.  He 
suggested  that  as  Mr.  Hooker  did  not  see 
anything  to  suit  his  fastidious  taste  among 
the  thousands  of  mouldings  already 
shown,  perhaps  he  would  like  to  look 
through  the  samples  in  the  workshop? 
Hooker  reluctantly  consented,  and  there 
among  the  old  and  new  frames,  in  the 
company  of  gilders,  fitters  and  mat- 
makers  he  carefully  made  a  suitable  selec 
tion. 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      25 

Of  course  the  "Three  Trees"  was  there. 
Its  light  could  not  be  concealed — its 
beauty  spoke  to  Hooker  from  a  far  corner. 
This  masterpiece  of  the  etcher's  art  was 
lying  on  a  table  awaiting  the  glass  that 
was  to  guard  and  watch  over  it.  The 
substitution  was  quickly  and  quietly  made. 
The  little  Rembrandt  was  carefully,  nay 
tenderly,  placed  in  a  commodious  side- 
pocket  of  Hooker's  coat;  the  treacherous 
younger  brother  was  left  upon  the  work- 
table,  where  it  would  shine  by  a  false  light 
— the  light  of  the  faithless,  the  reflected 
brilliancy  of  the  wicked. 

When  the  great  museum  was  founded 
some  years  later,  when  it  was  acclaimed 
as  one  of  the  art  institutes  of  the  world, 
when  great  scholars  extolled  it,  and  poets 
sang  of  it,  a  list  of  its  treasures  was  pub 
lished  which  amazed  the  critics  of  two 
continents.  Collectors  in  England,  in 
France,  in  New  York,  were  astounded! 

Mr.  Stevens  read  with  envy  that  it  con- 


26      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

tained  the  only  copy  known  of  the  first 
state  of  Rembrandt's  "Three  Trees." 
"Another  newspaper  canard!  An  infer 
nal  lie!  A  senseless  fabrication!"  he  ex 
claimed.  His  was  the  only  one;  he  did 
not  believe  another  would  ever  come  to 
light. 

He  would  examine  his  own  again.  He 
took  the  etching  carefully  from  the  wall. 
What  was  the  faint  blur — was  it  a  line  at 
the  bottom?  It  seemed  strange,  for  he 
had  not  noticed  it  before.  He  would  get 
his  magnifying  glass.  He  read,  in  micro 
scopic  letters:  "Facsimile  from  the 
unique  original  in  the  Hooker  Museum." 


THE  PURPLE  HAWTHORN 

WHEN  the  Appleton  collection  of 
Chinese  porcelains  was  pur 
chased  en  bloc  by  a  well-known  house 
doing  business  on  Fifth  Avenue,  the  cele 
brated  purple  hawthorn  vase  was  consid 
ered  the  most  precious  of  all. 

It  was  a  large  vase  dating  from  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  according  to 
eminent  authorities,  it  was  of  the  great 
Ch'ing  Dynasty  with  the  curious  marks  of 
the  period  known  as  K'ang-hsi. 

The  vase  itself  was  very  lovely;  it  was 
oviform  with  a  graceful,  flaring  neck. 
The  exquisite  design  showed  a  dwarfed 
mei  tree  with  the  most  beautiful  purple 
blossoms,  with  rare  foliage  and  gorgeous 
birds  painted  by  a  great,  although  un 
known,  artist.  The  glazing  was  superb, 
27 


28      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

being  transparent  and  of  unusual  bril 
liancy. 

This  noble  work  of  art  was  valued  at 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

Three  men  of  vast  wealth  competed 
for  the  prize,  and  the  lucky  purchaser 
was  the  eminent  banker,  John  T.  Sterling. 
Two  financiers,  known  the  world  over, 
grew  purple  with  jealousy  when  they  first 
discovered  that  it  was  to  go  into  the  Ster 
ling  collection.  Their  faces  resembled 
the  color  of  the  wonderful  blossoms  on 
the  hawthorn  vase. 

Robert  Hooker  wanted  to  add  to  his 
museum  this  precious  gift  of  the  old  Chi 
nese  gods.  At  the  various  places  where 
the  vase  had  been  exhibited,  he  had  often 
been  seen  gazing  covetously  at  it.  When 
it  was  offered  for  sale,  he  knew  it  was 
useless  to  ask  the  price — which  was  ut 
terly  beyond  him. 

One  day,  Hooker  read  in  the  society 
columns  of  the  Herald  that  Jasper  Fos- 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      29 

/ 
ter  was  going  to  take  up  his  residence  in 

Italy  on  account  of  the  illness  of  his  only 
daughter.  He  intended  to  sell  his  fine 
old  house  on  iyth  Street,  and  all  the  furni 
ture  that  it  contained. 

Now  Jasper  Foster  was  celebrated  for 
one  thing  only.  His  name  was  known  to 
fame  but  for  a  single  object.  He  was  the 
owner  of  the  mate  of  the  celebrated  pur 
ple  hawthorn  vase  in  the  Appleton  col 
lection. 

Foster  was  an  extremely  modest,  un 
worldly,  retiring  gentleman.  In  the  last 
fifteen  years  there  had  been  many  inquir 
ies  about  the  vase,  and  numerous  offers 
to  purchase  it,  but  he  had  always  declined 
to  part  with  it.  It  had  been  the  property 
of  his  father  arid  his  grandfather,  who 
had  bought  it  from  a  sea-captain  about 
the  year  1820. 

But  now  Foster  was  in  dire  straits. 
His  house  was  mortgaged,  and  his  daugh 
ter  was  ill  with  a  malady  that  required  a 


3o      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

milder  climate  than  New  York.  It  was 
on  this  account  that  he  was  going  to  take 
up  his  residence  in  sunny  Italy. 

As  soon  as  Hooker  read  the  brief  para 
graph  in  the  newspaper,  he  hurried  to  the 
rather  imposing  house  on  lower  iyth 
Street.  With  fear  and  trembling,  he  rang 
the  old-fashioned  bell-pull. 

Yes,  Mr.  Foster  was  at  home. 

The  maid  showed  Mr.  Hooker  into  the 
first  parlor.  He  heard  voices  in  an  ad 
joining  room.  Mr.  Foster  then  had  other 
visitors. 

To  pass  away  the  time,  he  picked  up  a 
magazine  but  put  it  down  instantly.  He 
had  heard  the  magic  words  "purple  haw 
thorn."  Some  one  else  was  before  him. 
He  would  find  out. 

Going  behind  an  old  Spanish  leather 
screen,  he  listened.  He  looked  through 
the  aperture,  and  beheld  two  men,  well- 
known  in  the  world  of  finance.  One  was 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      31 

John  T.  Sterling;  the  other  was  James 
Thatcher,  the  celebrated  collector. 

Mr.  Foster  was  not  there.  It  was  early 
in  the  morning,  and  perhaps  he  had  not 
completed  his  toilet. 

"Hello! — You  here?"  said  one  voice. 

"Check-mated!"  exclaimed  the  other. 

"Damn  it!  I  never  expected  to  see 
you." 

"Of  course  not.  I  know  your  mission. 
We  had  better  see  Foster  together." 

"No,  I  came  first.  I  claim  the  privi 
lege  of  the  first  interview!" 

"No!  I  shall  speak  out.  There  is  no 
use  for  us  to  bid  against  each  other.  It 
would  spoil  the  market!  I'm  sure  we  can 
come  to  some  agreement." 

"No !  I  own  the  Appleton  vase,  and  by 
right  I  should  possess  the  other.  It 
would  make  the  finest  pair  of  vases  in  the 
world!  It  will  look  magnificent  in  my 
house  on  Fifth  Avenue." 

"Don't  be  a  hog — Foster  does  not  know 


32      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

its  value.  He  was  offered  five  thousand 
dollars  for  it  after  the  Mary  J.  Morgan 
sale  in  1886.  If  we  offer  him  fifteen 
thousand  he  will  think  it  a  gold  mine. 
You  know  he  needs  the  money.  If  you 
offer  more  he  will  become  suspicious." 

"I  suppose  we  both  can't  have  it. 
We'll  toss  for  it!  that  is  when  the  business 
details  are  over.  You  make  an  offer  of 
ten — and  then  fifteen,  or  more,  if  neces 
sary.  Your  hand  upon  it!  Play  fair — 
this  is  not  the  stock-market!" 

The  two  eminent  financiers  grasped 
hands.  An  instant  later  Mr.  Foster  en 
tered. 

"Sorry   to   keep   you   waiting,    gentle 


men." 


''Not  at  all,  Mr.  Foster,"  replied  Ster 
ling.  "We  read  in  the  papers  you  were 
going  to  Italy,  and  thought  you  would 
like  to  dispose  of  some  of  your  curiosi 
ties.  May  we  look  around?" 

"Certainly.     I  would  like  to  sell  some 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      33 

of  the  things.  I  hate  to  do  it.  But  to  be 
frank  with  you  the  illness  of  my  daughter 
has  proved  a  great  expense.  I'm  forced 
to  sell  out." 

The  two  gentlemen  looked  around. 
One  purchased  a  satsuma  vase  for  a  hun 
dred  dollars — seventy-five  more  than  it 
was  worth!  The  other,  after  much  con 
sideration,  bought  an  East  Indian  brass 
bowl  for  fifty  dollars — an  extravagant 
price.  They  seemed  to  ignore  the  beau 
tiful  vase  in  a  glass  cabinet  in  the  corner. 
They  were  unconscious  of  its  existence! 

"I  have  something  really  fine,  gentle 
men — the  hawthorn  vase  purchased  by 
my  grandfather.  You  know  about  it?" 

"I  heard  something  of  it  once — but  I've 
forgotten  all  about  it.  I  would  be  glad 
to  look  at  the  vase." 

They  bent  their  heads.  A  thrill  ran 
through  them  as  they  beheld  the  wonder 
ful  purple  and  the  perfect  glaze. 

"That's  not  bad.     Of  course,  its  shape 


might  be  better.  People,  nowadays,  want 
the  green  or  black.  I  have  a  beautiful 
famille  rose.  What  do  you  want  for  it?" 

"I've  never  looked  at  it  in  that  way. 
What's  it  worth  to  you?  Some  years  ago 
I  had  a  good  offer  on  it.  But  I  didn't 
need  the  money  then." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I 
don't  want  to  be  small  about  it.  I'll  give 
you  ten  thousand  cash." 

Mr.  Foster  was  visibly  affected. 

"That  is  a  good  price.  But  I  need 
more  than  that  to  see  me  settled  in  my 
little  villa  in  Tuscany.  What  is  your 
very  best  offer?" 

"I'll  give  you  fifteen  thousand  dollars, 
and  not  a  cent  more.  And  that's  a  mighty 
liberal  offer." 

"Well,  that's  all  right.  I'll  let  you 
know  to-morrow." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"I  want  to  consult  my  daughter,  Caro 
line." 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      35 

"Well,  I'll  not  hold  my  offer  open  an 
other  day.  I'll  be  here  to-morrow  morn 
ing  at  this  time.  Please  don't  keep  me 
waiting.  You  know  I'm  a  very  busy 


man." 


They  paid  Mr.  Foster  for  their  wares, 
and  passed  out;  one  with  an  old  vase,  and 
the  other  with  a  brass  bowl  in  his 
hands. 

"I  think  we've  got  him!"  Hooker  over 
heard  one  of  them  say,  as  the  two  passed 
by  him  in  the  dimly-lighted  room. 

Yes.     Worse   luck.     Hooker  knew   it 

was  useless  to  make  other  offers.     He  had 

not  the  bank  account  to  compete  with  the 

famous  connoisseurs  that  had  just  left. 

And  he  knew  Mr.  Foster  was  a  gentleman 

of  the  old  school,  and  would  not  use  one 

offer  to  secure  a  better  one. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Foster." 

"Why  have  I  the  honor  of  this  visit?" 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  read  in  the 

Herald  that  you  were  going  to  move.     I 


36      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

would  like  to  know  at  what  price  you  hold 
this  house  and  lot?" 

"Well,  I'd  sell  cheap.  Properties  in 
this  section  are  not  worth  what  they  once 
were.  It  is  assessed  at  seventy  thousand 
dollars.  There  is  a  mortgage  on  it  of 
sixty.  I'd  take  seventy-five  for  it.  This 
section  is  too  antiquated  for  residences, 
and  business  is  moving  uptown. 

"But  I  want  it  for  a  residence.  May  I 
look  through  it?" 

"Of  course!" 

Hooker  examined  all  the  rooms,  noted 
the  old-fashioned  plumbing,  and  said  that 
the  whole  house  needed  a  thorough  going- 
over. 

"Well —I  think  I'll  take  it,"  he  said  at 
last.  "Do  you  want  the  old  furniture? 
I  would  sooner  buy  it  furnished,  that  is,  if 
I  could  buy  it  at  a  price!" 

This  was  a  golden  opportunity  for  poor 
Foster.  To  sell  his  house  with  its  worn 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      37 

furniture  and  the  vase,  in  a  single  day  was 
an  achievement! 

"I  would  sell  the  house  and  contents  en 
tire  for  eighty-five  thousand  dollars.  I 
must  exempt  one  vase,  however.  I've 
just  been  offered  fifteen  thousand  dollars 
for  it." 

"Not  for  a  single  vase?" 

"Yes,  would  you  like  to  see  it?" 

"It's  not  much  use.  But  I'm  naturally 
curious." 

Mr.  Foster,  with  great  dignity,  showed 
the  beautiful  hawthorn  vase.  It  gleamed 
silently  in  the  glass  case. 

"What!  Fifteen  thousand  for  that  I 
Perhaps,  if  it  is  really  worth  anything  like 
that,  I  can  afford  to  speculate.  I  might 
obtain  a  better  offer  on  it.  I'll  give  you 
ninety-five  thousand  dollars  for  the  house 
and  it's  entire  furnishings." 

"No.  The  lowest  is  one  hundred  thou 
sand." 


38      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"Done!  I'll  take  a  chance.  Give  me 
an  agreement  of  sale,  and  the  matter's 
ended!" 

Robert  Hooker  had  a  white  elephant  on 
his  hands.  The  house  was  really  worth 
but  the  value  of  the  mortgage,  and  the 
furniture  scarcely  five  thousand  dollars. 

What  was  he  to  do?  Thirty-five  thou 
sand  dollars  was  a  great  deal  for  a  poor 
man  to  give  for  a  vase 

He  removed  the  vase  that  afternoon  to 
his  own  modest  apartment  and  requested 
Mr.  Foster  to  refer  any  one  interested  in 
its  purchase  to  him. 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning,  he  had  an 
unusual  visitor  at  his  flat  in  West  Eighty- 
ninth  Street.  John  T.  Sterling  had  called 
to  see  him.  Hooker  went  into  the  living- 
room,  visibly  embarrassed  in  the  presence 
of  the  great  man. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Hooker.  I'll 
state  my  business  quickly.  Mr.  Foster 
tells  me  you  purchased  yesterday  his  house 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      39 

and  furniture.  Now  I'd  like  to  buy  it, 
if  it's  in  the  market.  I  think  I  could  turn 
it  into  a  garage.  I  need  one  in  that  neigh 
borhood.  I'll  give  you  ten  percent  more 
than  it  cost  you." 

"No— not  at  all.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do.  If  you  give  me  one  hundred  and  fif 
teen  thousand  for  the  house  and  its  con 
tents,  as  it  is  now,  I  shall  call  it  a  bargain. 
It'll  be  a  quick  turn." 

"All  right.  We'll  go  down  to  my  at 
torney's  at  once  and  draw  up  a  bill  of 
sale.  The  entire  contents  of  the  house  as 
it  is  this  moment,  mind  you.  Come  right 
along.  You  know  I'm  a  very  busy  man !" 

"That's  known  everywhere!"  said 
Hooker,  with  a  flattering  smile. 

On  Fifth  Avenue,  that  afternoon: 
"Done!  by  God!  and  by  a  mere  kid!" 

On  Eighty-ninth  Street,  that  evening: 
"That  will  make  the  Hooker  Museum 
famous!" 


THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF 
SHAKESPEARE 

BOOKLOVERS  have  considered  the 
little  volume  presented  by  Fran 
cis  Bacon  to  William  Shakespeare  the 
most  glorious  book  in  the  world.  It  re 
mained  for  many  years  in  the  British 
Museum,  and  many  a  pilgrimage  has  been 
made  to  worship  at  its  shrine. 

It  was  deposited  in  the  Museum  in  1838 
by  the  Hedley  family  of  Crawford 
Manor,  and  had  been  in  the  National  Li 
brary  for  so  long  a  time  that  it  was  con 
sidered  the  property  of  the  nation. 

The  book  itself  was  of  great  rarity  as 
it  was  no  other  than  the  first  edition  of 
Bacon's  "Essayes"  published  in  London 
in  1597.  It  bore  the  following  inscription 

written  upon  one  of  the  fly-leaves : 

40 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      41 

To  my  perfect  Friend  Mr.  Wylliam 
Shakespeare  I  give  this  booke  as  an 
eternall  Witnesse  of  my  love. 

FRA.  BACON. 

In  1908  the  Hedley  family  were  in  fi 
nancial  straits.  It  was  discovered  that 
the  copy  of  Bacon's  Essays  had  not  been 
presented  to  the  British  Museum  but 
merely  deposited  as  a  loan.  The  Mu 
seum  tried  its  best  to  retain  the  precious 
volume,  but  the  records  were  clear  upon 
the  point. 

In  December,  1909,  the  Hedleys  stated 
that  they  would  sell  it  to  the  Museum  for 
£40,000  or  fifty  thousand  dollars  less  than 
had  been  offered  for  it. 

An  unknown  collector  would  give  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  for 
it! 

The  newspapers  inaugurated  a  public 
subscription  to  keep  the  volume  in  Eng 
land,  claiming  that  its  loss  could  never 
be  estimated  as  it  was  the  most  precious 


42      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

memorial  in  existence  of  the  golden  age 
of  English  literature. 

It  was  suspected,  of  course,  that  it 
would  go  to  America. 

After  six  months,  it  was  found  impossi 
ble  to  collect  the  money  required.  There 
was,  apparently,  but  little  interest  in 
things  of  a  literary  and  artistic  nature.  If 
it  had  been  for  a  new  battleship  costing 
twenty  times  this  amount,  the  money 
would  have  been  forthcoming  instantly. 

It  was  finally  announced  in  the  Lon 
don  papers  that  the  celebrated  collector, 
William  S.  Fields  of  New  York,  was  the 
fortunate  purchaser  of  the  world-famed 
volume.  The  news  was  heralded  the 
world  over. 

When  it  arrived,  Robert  Hooker,  an  in 
telligent,  but  by  no  means  wealthy, 
bibliophile,  made  a  request  to  see  it;  to 
hold  within  his  mortal  hands  this  mag 
nificent  relic  of  the  two  great  Eliza 
bethans. 


43 

"No!"  was  Fields'  curt  response. 

It  had  been  rumored  that  Robert 
Hooker  was  founding  a  museum  in  some 
unknown  spot — but  where  the  money  was 
to  come  from  was  a  mystery. 

It  appeared  that  the  Bacon-Shake 
speare  volume  was  locked  up  in  a  steel 
vault  in  the  Fields'  residence,  guarded  by 
an  approved  time-lock  and  other  interest 
ing  features.  The  book  was  never  to  be 
removed  from  the  safe,  unless  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  owner  and  a  trusted  servant. 

Robert  Hooker  was  extremely  desirous 
of  adding  this  treasure  to  his  mythical 
museum!  He  said  it  was  an  outrage  that 
one  man,  on  account  of  the  accident  of 
great  wealth,  should  become  the  sole 
possessor  of  it.  It  was  a  shock  to  public 
decency!  It  should  repose,  as  it  had 
for  more  than  seventy  years,  in  a  library 
or  an  institution,  where  it  could  be  freely 
seen.  He  therefore  resolved  to  add  it  to 
his  own. 


44      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

But  how?  The  book  was  constantly 
under  guard  in  a  guaranteed  burglar- 
proof  vault.  To  employ  the  most  experi 
enced  crackmen  to  undertake  the  job 
would  be  almost  insane.  He  could  not 
try  to  substitute  a  facsimile  as  in  the 
"Three  Trees."  To  bribe  the  guard  was 
foolhardy  because  the  guard  did  not  know 
the  combination  of  the  safety-lock.  He 
was  at  his  wit's  end!  Not  a  single  prac 
tical  idea  entered  his  head.  For  once  he 
was  at  the  end  of  his  resources! 

Robert  Hooker  was  a  great  lover  of 
books.  Like  other  kinds  of  love,  the  more 
he  was  denied,  the  greater  the  love  grew; 
and  time  added  fuel  to  the  flames. 

One  evening  in  his  library  he  was  think 
ing  what  a  pity  it  was  that  he  could  not 
see  with  his  own  eyes  this  evasive  little 
book,  when  an  idea  flashed  through  his 
brain. 

That  night  he  did  not  sleep. 

The  following  day  Hooker  paid  a  visit 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      45 

to  an  old  building  in  lower  New  York. 
It  was  the  United  States  Custom  House. 
He  asked  to  see  an  appraiser  whom  he 
had  known  from  boyhood  days,  and  he 
talked  with  him  for  an  hour  about  the 
weather,  the  base-ball  score  and  other  ab 
sorbing  questions. 

"By  the  way,  Girard,  that  was  a  nice 
purchase  Fields  made  last  month — I 
mean  the  Bacon  volume.  I  suppose  you 
saw  it  when  it  came  through  the  Cus 
toms!" 

"No,    I    don't    remember    it.     That's 


curious." 


"Well,  at  any  rate,  it  was  free  of  duty 
by  age!" 

"I  know  that,  Hooker.  But  even  so, 
everything  worth  over  ten  thousand  dol 
lars,  I  personally  examine." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  make  much  difference. 
The  book  should  come  in  without  paying 
duty.  Perhaps  it  came  by  another  port." 

"No,  through  this.     All  Fields'  things 


46      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

come  here.  We  are  told  to  always  hurry 
his  through.  He's  got  lots  of  pull,  and 
we  like  to  oblige  him." 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"But  Fields,  too,  has  to  obey  the  letter 
of  the  law.  I  want  to  look  this  thing  up." 

Mr.  Girard  was  gone  for  over  half  an 
hour.  He  returned.  "Here's  the  thing. 
Look  at  this  consular  invoice." 

"Bacon's  Essays  1597.     £200." 

"But  what  good  does  it  do?  The  book 
comes  in  free,  if  it's  worth  a  million!" 

"I  know.  But  Fields  wanted  this 
cleared  the  very  day  it  was  received.  He 
or  no  one  else  has  a  right  to  undervalue, 
even  if  the  article  does  not  pay  duty.  I'm 
going  to  find  out  about  this.  I'm  going 
to  get  that  book  back  and  examine  it. 
Fields  or  no  Fields,  he  must  obey  the  law! 
I  might  get  fired  for  this." 

The  owner  of  the  Bacon  was  much  dis 
turbed.  Mr.  Fields  did  not  like  the  pub- 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      47 

licity  that  followed  the  newspaper  revela 
tions.  He  was  much  annoyed  at  one 
newspaper  which  said  that  if  he  under 
valued  non-dutiable  things,  how  about 
those  that  carried  a  high  impost? 

Of  course,  the  whole  matter  was  noth 
ing.  And  yet  he  was  vexed.  He  did  not 
like  the  notice  that  a  Treasury  official  was 
to  call  for  the  sacred  package  that  reposed 
within  the  solid  walls  of  his  safe. 

The  next  day,  a  gentleman  with  an  or 
der  from  the  Treasury  Department  of  the 
United  States  paid  him  a  visit.  It  was 
an  official  messenger  in  a  blue  suit  with 
a  conspicuous  nickel  badge.  The  great 
steel  doors  were  opened  and  closed;  the 
book  was  then  removed;  an  instant  later 
the  click  of  the  lock  was  heard.  The 
other  treasures  in  the  vault  were  safe 
against  the  machinations  of  men! 

Twenty  minutes  later  another  official 
called.  Mr.  Fields  thought  at  first  it  was 


the  same  gentleman  returning.  He 
came  for  a  book  that  had  been  under 
valued  at  the  Custom  House. 

"What!  I've  just  given  it  to  one  of 
your  men!" 

"Impossible,  Mr.  Fields.  This  order 
was  issued  to  me!" 

"Why,  that's  a  fake.  Why,  the  one 
just  presented  to  me  had  a  big  red  gov 
ernment  seal  on  it.  It  was  signed  by  the 
head  of  the  Treasury." 

"Must  have  been  a  forgery.  This  is 
merely  an  order  signed  by  Mr.  Bond,  the 
representative  at  New  York.  But  it's 
genuine!" 

The  various  theories  of  the  robbery  that 
were  advanced  would  have  filled  many 
volumes.  Even  the  British  Museum  was 
suspected! 

Mr.  Girard,  the  appraiser,  felt  in  his 
inmost  soul  that  Robert  Hooker  knew 
something  about  it.  He  told  his  story  to 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      49 

the  greatest  detective  in  the  world,  who 
was  in  charge  of  the  case  for  the  Govern 
ment.  He  did  not  want  to  issue  a  war 
rant  for  Hooker's  arrest  without  any  evi 
dence  whatever.  He  could  not  take  into 
custody  an  honorable  gentleman  merely 
on  suspicion.  He  had  to  have  tangible 
proof. 

The  great  detective  accordingly  em 
ployed  three  able  assistants  to  examine 
every  nook  and  corner  of  Hooker's  house, 
including  his  library. 

All  this  was  done  during  the  absence  of 
the  owner.  The  police  even  employed 
pickpockets  to  jostle  him  on  the  streets  to 
make  sure  the  book  was  not  upon  his  per 
son.  Hooker  had  been  under  surveil 
lance  three  hours  after  the  robbery;  it  was 
either  in  the  house,  or  he  was  not  guilty. 

Every  book  in  his  large  library  was 
examined.  The  police  authorities  finally 
had  a  complete  catalogue  of  his  collec 
tion,  which  some  day  will  make  interest- 


50      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

ing  reading.  The  detectives  took  pen 
and  pencil  and  noted  the  titles  of  every 
volume  with  the  year  of  publication;  they 
admitted  that  bibliography  and  literary 
work  was  not  to  their  liking.  It  lacked 
excitement  and  they  all  agreed  it  was  only 
fit  for  poets,  professors,  and  other  inferior 
persons. 

The  detectives  found  it  much  easier  at 
first  to  look  for  a  volume  bound  in  red 
levant  morocco  with  "Bacon's  Essayes"  in 
gold  letters  on  the  back.  This  was  the 
description  given  them  of  the  original. 

Fearing  some  error,  and  being  natur 
ally  suspicious,  they  were  compelled  to  be 
scholarly  and  open  the  volumes,  but  they 
did  not  find  one  dated  1597,  or  which  an 
swered  in  any  way  to  the  form  and  matter 
of  the  missing  volume. 

After  a  month  of  search,  the  detectives 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  book  was 
not  in  his  possession.  Robert  Hooker 
was  guiltless! 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      51 

When  he  is  not  going  out  of  an  eve 
ning,  Hooker  will  often  remain  by  the 
fireside  in  his  library,  reading  his  favor 
ite  authors.  When  no  one  is  about,  he 
will  go  to  the  largest  book-case,  and  in  a 
'conspicuous  place  in  the  centre  of  the 
third  shelf,  he  will  take  down  a  small 
thick  volume,  which  he  handles  tenderly. 
He  will  often  touch  it  fondly  with  his 
lips.  It  is  bound  in  shabby  old  black  calf 
and  is  labelled  on  the  back  ''Johnson's 
Lives."  Opening  the  volume  you  will  see 
the  curious  title-page,  which  reads: 
"The  History  of  the  Lives  and  Actions 
of  the  most  famous  Highwaymen  and 
Robbers.  By  Charles  Johnson.  Lon 
don.  Printed  in  the  year  1738." 

Sewed  in  the  centre,  and  uniform  in 
size,  is  another  book  which  a  short  time 
before  was  one  of  the  glories  of  the  Brit 
ish  Museum.  It  had  been  bereft  of  its 
red  morocco  covering. 

It  is  destined  to  be  the  chief  article  of 


52      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

interest  in  another  museum,  to  be  founded 
for  the  use  and  instruction  of  the  public 
for  all  time. 

For  Shakespeare  and  Bacon  are  im 
mortal  ! 


THE  COLONIAL  SECRETARY 

ONE  of  the  most  eccentric  characters 
in  the  book-world  was  Doctor 
Morton.  He  knew  a  great  deal  of  the 
lore  of  books  and  made  a  splendid  living 
by  stealing  them.  Old  volumes  were 
meat  and  drink  to  him.  He  lived  quietly 
and  respectably  in  a  small  New  England 
town  where  he  was  honored  for  his  learn 
ing  and  piety. 

Although  Dr.  Morton  was  a  thief,  a 
pilferer  of  libraries  and  collectors,  he 
committed  a  far  greater  crime,  for  which 
it  is  impossible  to  forgive  him.  Murder, 
assassination,  arson  and  treason  were 
naught  to  this  unspeakable  thing.  It  was 
worse  than  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins. 

Doctor  Morton  was  unlike  the  cele 
brated  Spanish  bibliophile,  who,  not  be 
ing  able  to  obtain  it  in  any  other  way, 

53 


killed  a  fellow-collector  in  order  to  se 
cure  a  unique  volume  of  early  Castilian 
laws.  He  died  upon  the  scaffold  unre 
pentant,  maintaining  that  the  prize  was 
worth  it.  All  honor  to  poor  Don  Vin- 
cente  of  Aragon!  His  name  shall  always 
be  tenderly  cherished  by  lovers  of  books! 

Doctor  Morton  sold  the  books  he  stole! 
This,  in  the  calendar  of  bookish  misde 
meanors,  is  the  crime  of  crimes. 

Now  this  respectable  citizen  of  Con 
necticut  was  a  man  of  parts.  There  was 
no  gainsaying  his  knowledge.  His  home 
was  beautifully  furnished,  for  he  was  a 
person  of  excellent  taste.  He  would 
point  to  an  old  Italian  cabinet  in  his  liv 
ing-room,  and  say  to  himself:  "I  paid 
for  that  with  the  first  edition  of  Milton's 
'Paradise  Lost,'  and,  as  to  the  Chinese 
Chippendale  table:  that  was  bought  from 
the  proceeds  of  the  Elzevir  'Caesar.' ' 

Sometimes  his  friends  would  be  as 
tounded  at  his  unintelligible  speech.  He 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      55 

would  say  in  an  unconscious  moment: 
"Bring  in  the  Vanity  Fair  in  Parts!" 
meaning  nothing  else  but  an  antique  as 
tral  lamp,  that  he  had  exchanged  for  the 
first  edition  of  Thackeray's  immortal 
novel,  or  he  would  exclaim  to  his  maid  at 
tea-time:  "Sarah,  use  to-day  the  uncut 
'Endymion'  from  the  Sterling  Collec 
tion,"  pointing  at  the  same  time  to  a  beau 
tiful  old  silver  tray.  All  the  furnishings 
in  his  home  represented  a  book  "bor 
rowed"  from  some  famous  library,  and 
then  shamelessly  sold  and  the  money  ex 
pended  on  household  gods. 

Doctor  Morton  obtained  the  books  of 
other  men  by  many  devious  ways.  For 
instance,  he  would  write  to  a  collector 
under  the  name  of  a  well-known  amateur, 
and  always  upon  the  most  exquisite  sta 
tionery,  requesting  the  loan  for  a  few  days 
of  the  third  quarto  of  Hamlet;  he  was 
writing  a  brochure  on  the  early  editions 
of  Shakespeare,  and  it  was  necessary,  in 


56      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

the  holy  cause  of  scholarship  to  inspect 
the  volume. 

Alas!     PoorYorickl 

The  collector  would  send  the  book,  and 
that  was  the  last  he  would  hear  of  it. 

Morton  would  borrow  a  wonderful  old 
woodcut  by  Albrecht  Diirer,  in  pursuit 
of  his  investigations  in  the  early  history 
of  engraving,  and  return  in  its  place  in 
the  old  frame  a  modern  facsimile,  stained 
to  look  like  the  original,  and  which  the 
owner  might  not  discover  until  years 
after. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  chronicle  the  ac 
tivities  of  this  New  England  worthy, 
however  interesting  and  instructive  they 
may  be.  It  was  Doctor  Morton's  well- 
known  coup  in  connection  with  the  Wei- 
ford  library  that  brings  him  into  this 
story. 

Thomas  Pennington  Welford  was 
growing  old.  He  was  a  Quaker,  a  de 
scendant  of  the  Penningtons  that  came 


over  with  William  Penn.  He  lived  in  an 
old  house  on  Arch  Street  in  Philadelphia, 
just  a  stone's  throw  from  Benjamin  Frank 
lin's  grave. 

He  was  a  Quaker  of  the  old  school ;  was 
known  as  conservative  by  members  of  the 
Meeting-House;  by  others,  as  "close" 
and  "tight-fisted." 

Welford  gloried  in  this  saving  habit. 
He  was  considered  quite  wealthy  by  his 
heirs,  who  were  the  only  ones  who  ap 
proved  of  his  penurious  ways. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
he  determined  to  put  his  house  in  order. 
He  would  sell  his  curiosities  and  his  use 
less  household  furnishings  to  the  highest 
bidder. 

When  Doctor  Morton  called  one  hot 
day  in  summer,  Welford  was  in  the  act 
of  examining  his  books,  before  an  old 
mahogany  case  that  looked  as  if  it 
had  come  over  with  the  first  Penning- 
ton. 


58      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Welford,  you 
seem  pleasantly  engaged." 

"Yes,  sir.  I'm  looking  over  some  old 
things.  I  want  to  get  rid  of  everything 
that  I  can  do  without." 

"I'm  Doctor  Morton.  I'm  interested 
in  anything  old  or  curious.  Let  me  see 
what  you've  got.  Ah!  here's  an  old  copy 
of  Barclay's  'Apology.'  That's  very 
valuable." 

"How  much  is  it  worth?" 

"Seventy-five  dollars." 

"That  much?     You  surprise  me." 

"It's  worth  probably  more.  Oh,  look! 
Here's  another  gem.  It's  bound  in  full 
morocco.  Sewell's  'History  of  the  Quak 
ers,'  1770.  That's  easily  worth  a  hun 
dred!" 

The  two  book  investigators  pursued 
their  investigations. 

Mr.  Welford  was  astonished  when  he 
learned  that  these  old  religious  and  con 
troversial  writings  were  worth  so  much 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      59 

money.  He  did  not  know  that  the  mod 
ern  collector  was  purchasing  for  fabulous 
sums  the  old  sermons  of  eminent  divines. 

According  to  the  learned  Doctor  Mor 
ton,  these  were  just  the  things  that  the  rich 
bibliophile  demanded! 

In  going  over  these  dusty  books  and 
pamphlets,  Doctor  Morton  laid  the  din 
giest  and  shabbiest  in  a  little  pile.  These 
were  of  no  value  he  said,  and  worth  only 
the  price  of  waste-paper. 

In  the  lot  was  a  mutilated  almanac, 
printed  by  Benjamin  Franklin  in  1733. 

"Look  at  that  dirty  old  almanac!  A 
modern  one  is  a  hundred  times  more  valu 
able!"  Doctor  Morton  would  exclaim; 
knowing  at  the  same  time  that  this  first 
issue  of  Poor  Richard  was  worth  its 
weight  in  gold. 

"That  ought  to  be  destroyed!  It's  a 
filthy  attack  on  Willam  Penn  and  the 
Quakers.  If  I  were  you  I'd  put  that  in 
the  fire!"  said  the  virtuous  doctor,  point- 


6o      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

ing  to  a  little  quarto  pamphlet  published 
in  London  in  1682,  and  one  of  two  copies 
extant,  the  other  being  priced  at  $600.00 
by  a  well-known  book-seller.  In  it  is  the 
curious  statement  that  Penn  was  fond  of 
certain  ladies  of  the  wicked  court  of 
Charles  II.  And  it  was  not  in  Lowndes, 
or  in  any  bibliography! 

When  the  last  volume  on  the  last  shelf 
had  been  valued  by  the  doctor,  Mr.  Wei- 
ford  stated  that  he  did  not  care  to  sell  im 
mediately.  He  wanted  to  "look  around 
a  little."  The  books  were  really  worth 
more  than  he  thought. 

"Then,  sir,  why  have  you  put  me  to  all 
this  trouble!  I've  lost  a  whole  morning 
going  over  your  things  and  telling  you 
about  them.  When  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  sell,  let  me  know.  This  pile  of 
trash  you  can  burn,  or  you  can  sell  it  to 
the  old-paper  man.  You  might  get 
twenty-five  cents  for  the  lot.  Perhaps 
you  might  give  a  few  of  those  worthless 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      61 

pamphlets    to    me.     You've    taken    up 
enough  of  my  time." 

"The  lot  will  cost  thee  two  dollars,  Doc 


tor." 


"All  right.  Give  me  a  receipt.  This 
is  the  last  time  I'll  give  free  advice  to 
anyone!  Particularly  a  Quaker!" 

When  Mr.  Welford  "looked  around" 
he  discovered  that  the  beautifully  bound 
sermons,  eulogies,  prayer-books  and 
catechisms  were  worth  next  to  nothing. 
He  almost  passed  away  when  a  kind 
friend  told  him  that  Poor  Richard's 
Almanac  was  worth  a  thousand  dollars. 

Another  amiable  acquaintance  cheer 
fully  imparted  the  information  that  the 
scandalous  pamphlet  about  the  First  Pro 
prietor  of  Pennsylvania  was  valued  at  ten 
shares  of  Pennsylvania  Railroad  stock. 
At  hearing  this  good  news,  he  put  on  his 
gray  hat  and  started  full  of  righteous  in 
dignation  to  interview  the  lucky  pur 
chaser. 


"Don't  swear,  Mr.  Welford.  That's 
not  becoming  one  of  your  persuasion." 

"Thou— thou— " 

"Don't  choke  and  splutter  so.  It's  bad 
for  the  heart." 

"Thee  told  me  those  big  books  of  ser 
mons  were  valuable.  They're  not  worth 
the  paper  they're  written  on!" 

"Now,  you're  becoming  sacrilegious!" 

"Thee  knows  that  rotten  old  thing  about 
Penn  was  worth  all  those  catechisms  and 
sermons  combined." 

"I  naturally  thought  that  a  religious 
book  was  worth  more  than  a  scandalous 
one.  That  stands  to  reason." 

"There's  no  arguing  with  thee.  I'll  ex 
pose  thee,  if  it  takes — " 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't.  I  have  your  re 
ceipt  in  full." 

Mr.  Welford  thought  a  minute.  A 
grim  smile  overspread  his  features. 

"I  congratulate  thee,  Doctor.  If  thee 
can  get  the  better  of  a  Philadelphia 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      63 

Quaker,  thou  art  welcome  to  the  profit!" 

Now  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  Robert 
Hooker.  It  appears  upon  further  inves 
tigation,  however,  that  the  candle-stick 
made  by  Paul  Revere,  silversmith  and  pa 
triot,  that  stood  upon  the  mantel-piece  of 
the  Doctor's  home  in  Connecticut,  was 
known  under  the  outrageous  name  of 
"Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  in  Old 
Calf." 

Why  this  candle-stick  was  catalogued 
in  this  mysterious  way  was  known  only 
to  Doctor  Morton. 

Three  years  ago  the  first  edition  of  Bur 
ton's  great  book,  published  in  Oxford  in 
1621,  and  in  its  original  calf  binding,  was 
borrowed  by  the  Doctor,  who  said  he  was 
writing  an  article  for  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  on  "Old  Burton  and  the  Anat 
omy." 

The  owner  of  the  book  could  not  resist 
the  gentle  demands  of  the  true  scholar, 
and  sent  the  volume.  He  ought  to  have 


64      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

known  better,  for  his  name  was  Robert 
Hooker! 

It  was  not  soothing  to  the  imaginations 
of  book-lovers  when  it  became  known  that 
the  two  gems  from  Welford's  library  had 
gone  into  the  rapacious  hands  of  Doctor 
Morton,  to  be  turned  into  an  old  mahog 
any  sofa  or  a  colonial  high-boy. 

It  was  criminal,  and  must  be  prevented 
at  all  costs.  And  Robert  Hooker,  smart 
ing  under  the  recollection  of  the  loss  of 
the  "Anatomy"  thought  he  would  like  to 
add  wicked  "Penn"  and  "Poor  Richard" 
to  his  household.  They  would  prove  a 
considerable  addition  to  his  "museum  of 
the  imagination." 

How  to  secure  them  was  a  problem! 
Ordinary  methods  could  not  be  applied 
to  the  extraordinary  Doctor  Morton! 
The  wisdom  of  the  serpent  was  as  nothing 
to  the  vivid  intellectuality  of  the  Con 
necticut  Sage!  It  must  be  confessed  that 
only  New  England  could  have  produced 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      65 

him ;  only  the  rarified  bookish  atmosphere 
of  three  hundred  years  could  have  engen 
dered  a  creature  of  such  genius! 

Hooker  never  despaired.  A  remedy 
was  close  at  hand. 

He  was  walking  one  day,  on  Thirty- 
ninth  Street,  and  just  off  Broadway,  he 
noticed  a  very  handsome  mahogany  sec 
retary  in  an  antique  store.  He  entered 
the  establishment,  and  asked  its  price. 

"A  hundred  dollars!"  said  the  proprie 
tor.  "This  piece  is  believed  to  have  been 
once  the  property  of  Thomas  Jefferson. 
I  purchased  it  from  one  of  his  heirs." 

"I'll  take  it,"  said  Hooker  simply. 

Three  weeks  later  Doctor  Morton  en 
tered  a  little  shop  on  Fourth  Avenue. 
He  had  received  a  letter  from  the  head 
partner,  asking  him  to  call  the  next  time 
he  came  to  New  York,  and  inspect  a  piece 
of  colonial  furniture  of  the  greatest  his 
torical  interest. 


66      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

The  doctor  was  almost  carried  away 
when  he  beheld  the  beautiful  relic  of 
revolutionary  days.  This  would  grace 
his  home  with  rare  charm!  He  asked 
the  price. 

"Forty-five  hundred  dollars!" 

"I  don't  understand.  Why  is  it  so  val 
uable?" 

"That's  Thomas  Jefferson's  desk.  It 
comes  from  his  heirs;  the  Declara 
tion  of  Independence  was  written  on 
it!" 

"That's  a  pretty  story.  Where's  your 
proof?  Without  documentary  evidence, 
it's  not  worth  more  than  a  hundred  dol 
lars." 

"I  have  the  proof,  Doctor.  Look 
here." 

The  proprietor  then  rolled  back  the 
top.  He  put  his  finger  upon  a  secret 
drawer.  He  took  out  a  letter  and  handed 
it  in  silence  to  Doctor  Morton. 

He  read  as  follows: 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE.  MEMOIRS      67 

Monticello,  June  12,  1821. 

This  secretary  which  is  five  feet  four 
inches  high  and  three  feet  wide,  made 
of  Santa  Domingo  mahogany,  was 
purchased  by  me  in  Philadelphia  in 
November,  1775,  of  Robert  Aitken, 
the  printer.  Upon  this  desk,  I  wrote 
in  my  home  on  High  Street  near 
Seventh,  the  celebrated  instrument 
known  as  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence.  Thinking  that  my  heirs 
and  others  would  value  this  article  for 
its  association  with  the  sacred  cause 
of  liberty,  I  make  this  statement. 

Witness  my  hand  and  seal,  this 
twelfth  day  of  June,  1821,  and  the  year 
of  American  Independence,  the  forty- 
fifth. 

THO.  JEFFERSON. 

Doctor  Morton  looked  carefully  at  the 
letter.  He  examined  the  red  wafer  with 
"T.  J."  in  faded  letters  upon  it. 

Accompanying  the  letter  was  another 
from  one  of  the  heirs  of  the  celebrated 
statesman. 

"The  desk  is  cheap  at  any — "     Doctor 


Morton  blurted.  He  caught  himself  in 
time. 

"I'd  like  to  own  it.  I'd  give  your 
price,  but  haven't  the  cash.  I  have  some 
old  books  worth  lots  of  money.  Perhaps 
we  can  arrange  a  trade." 

For  two  hours  the  two  worked  over  this 
momentous  transaction.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  and  in  consideration  of  a  rare 
pamphlet  containing  scurrilous  remarks 
on  William  Penn,  an  old  ephemeris 
printed  by  Benjamin  Franklin  and  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  cash,  the  ma 
hogany  colonial  secretary  was  transferred 
to  Doctor  Willis  Morton — to  have  and 
hold  forever. 

One  evening,  about  a  month  later,  the 
eccentric  collector  of  the  little  Connecti 
cut  town  sat  down  in  his  chair  to  gloat 
over  and  hold  communion  with  his  "liter 
ary"  treasures,  for  he  did  not  call  them  ar 
ticles  of  virtu  or  specimens  of  bric-a- 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      69 

brae,  or  furniture  of  the  Jacobean  period, 
but  gave  each  piece  that  was  dear  to  him 
a  name  that  smacked  of  books  and  learn 
ing.  His  mind  turned  to  the  evil  early 
life  of  William  Penn,  and  the  wisdom  of 
Poor  Richard,  while  at  the  same  time  his 
eyes  were  riveted  upon  a  beautiful  eight 
eenth  century  desk.  A  bell  interrupted 
his  agreeable  visions.  A  telegram  had 
arrived.  He  opened  it  hurriedly,  and 
read: 

Please  look  under  red  wax  wafer  on 
Jefferson's  letter.  Important  Informa 
tion.  R.  H. 

Doctor  Morton  went  to  the  secretary, 
and  taking  the  letter  in  his  trembling 
hands,  gingerly  lifted  the  seal  of  the  third 
President  of  the  United  States. 

"Damn!"  he  cried,  as  he  read  in  mi 
nute  letters:  "A  forgery, — in  pleasant 
memory  of  my  lost  'Anatomy.' 

"Robert  Hooker,  fecit." 


IN  DEFENCE  OF  HIS  NAME 

HE  was  again  talking  of  his  ances 
tors.     He  was  always  talking  of 
his  ancestors.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  library  of  a  Fifth  Avenue 
club,  but  the  gentlemen  seated  at  a  win 
dow  overlooking  the  famous  thorough 
fare  were  not  discussing  books.  They 
were  examining  with  care  the  beautiful 
ladies  that  always  decorated  this  brilliant 
highway. 

"That — with  the  blue  bonnet  and  the 
short  blue  sleeves,  is  Mrs.  Wilberforce 
Andre,"  said  John  Stuyvesant  DePuyster. 
"Her  husband  is  a  descendant  of  Varick 
who  served  as  aide-de-camp  to  General 
Arnold." 

"That  doesn't  make  her  more  attrac 
tive,"  said  Robert  Hooker. 
70 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      71 

DePuyster  ignored  the  remark.  "My 
great  grandfather — " 

"We  know  all  about  him,"  chorused 
the  others.  "Let-up,  please.  Have 
mercy  on  us,  it's  a  hot  day." 

"My  great  grandmother,  on  my  fa 
ther's  side — "  persisted  DePuyster. 

"We  know  all  about  her!"  the  others 
answered,  wearily. 

"But  Mrs.  Andre  reminds  me  of  an  in 
teresting  story.  And  you  are  always  look 
ing  for  stories.  In  January,  1779,  my 
great  grandfather  was  serving  on  the  staff 
of  Bene'dict  Arnold.  As  you  know,  it 
was  he,  John  Stuyvesant  DePuyster,  my 
namesake,  who  rescued  the  colors  so  gal 
lantly  at  Saratoga — who  fought  at  Ger- 
mantown — who  almost  starved  at  Valley 
Forge — who  rescued  General  Greene  at 
the  risk  of  his  life — who  was  wounded 
with  two  bullets  in  his  flank  at  the  battle 
of  Trenton — who  served  so  brilliantly  un 
der  Mad  Anthony  Wayne — who — " 


72      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

The  others  looked  at  each  other  fur 
tively,  with  misery  indicated  on  every 
feature. 

One  of  them,  the  great  autograph  col 
lector,  Robert  Hooker,  nervously 
twitched  his  fingers.  He  seemed  in 
agony,  and  looked  around,  evidently  for 
signs  of  relief. 

— "Who  received  a  medal  for  gallantry 
at  Monmouth,"  chronicled  the  voice  in  a 
perfectly  satisfied  tone, — "who  rebuked 
Colonel  Tarleton — who  was  praised  even 
by  the  British  commander  Lord  Howe — 
who  sat  at  the  court-martial  of  Andre— 
and  who— 

"Was  a  traitor  to  his  country!"  said 
Hooker,  quietly. 

Everyone  looked  uneasy.  They  all 
hated  scenes.  But  at  any  rate,  it  was  a 
fortunate  escape.  A  duel  with  bloodshed 
would  be  better  than  DePuyster's  sto 
ries! 

"Sir,"  he  returned  hotly,  "an  accusation 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      73 

such  as  this  has  never  been  made  against 
our  family!" 

"Then  I  shall  be  the  first  to  make  it." 

"It  is  outrageous, — a  damnable,  lying 
statement,  and  you've  got  to  prove  it! 
I'll  force  it  back  into  your  throat,  you 
slanderer!  You've  got  to  prove  it,  I  say, 
Sir!" 

"I  have  the  proof!" 

"Then  you've  got  to  show  it.  I  de 
mand  it.  I  have  the  right  to  demand 
it." 

"Two  weeks  from  now,  there  will  be 
sold  at  the  Amhurst  Auction  Galleries, 
an  autograph  letter  of  General  Arnold, 
in  which  he  speaks  of  General  DePuyster 
as  an  accomplice,  who  was  ready  to  turn 
over  to  the  British  cause  his  honor  and 
his  sword.  The  catalogue  w7ill  be  issued 
in  two  weeks'  time,  and  the  full  text  of 
the  letter  printed.  It  might  be  well  for 
your  precious  family  that  this  letter  re 
mains  unpublished!" 


74      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"I'll  look  it  up  at  once,"  said  DePuy- 
ster.  "Until  you  prove  your  statement, 
I'll  not  notice  or  speak  to  you,  Sir." 

A  week  later  an  old  autograph  letter 
was  shown  to  him  at  the  cataloguing 
rooms  of  the  auction-house.  DePuyster 
had  called  every  day,  but  it  was  a  week 
before  he  was  allowed  to  see  it.  It  was 
to  be  sold  as  the  "property  of  a  gentle 


man." 


With  trembling  hands,  he  examined 
this  tomb  of  the  secrets  of  the  illustrious 
DePuyster,  this  time-stained  document 
with  faded  writing.  The  letter  read  as 
follows : 

Robinson's  House, 
September  2,   1780. 
Sir:— 

Everything  is  progressing  as  agreed. 
I  have  secured  a  pass  for  Hett  Smith. 
I  suppose  the  ordnance  at  West  Point 
is  the  same  as  given.  What  of  the 
military  force?  We  have  not  enough 
to  help  us  on  this  side.  We  need  more 


than  two,  a  third  or  fourth  person 
is  required.  Colonel  DePuyster,  in 
charge  of  the  ordnance,  has  given  me 
his  word  that  he  will  be  ready  when 
called  upon.  He  has  already  written 
me,  giving  the  number  of  blackberries 
in  the  first  field.  He  is  of  great  assist 
ance,  and  his  name,  which  has  always 
stood  for  honor  in  America,  will  prove 
a  great  asset  to  us.  It  is  a  name  that  is 
like  Caesar's  wife,  and  has  never  been 
suspected.  I  have  supplied  the  third 
help-mate;  will  you  furnish  our 
fourth? 

I  am,  Sir,  with  great  respect, 
Your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

GUSTAVUS. 
Maj.  John  Anderson. 

The  descendant  of  the  gallant  revolu 
tionary  soldier  trembled  like  a  coward. 
The  name  of  John  Anderson  and  Gus- 
tavus  were  well-known  to  him  as  those  as 
sumed  by  Andre  and  Arnold  in  the  great 
conspiracy.  The  hand-writing  was,  un 
doubtedly,  Arnold's;  he  had  letters  in  his 
own  home  written  by  the  infamous  gen- 


76      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

eral  to  Col.  DePuyster,  his  great  grand 
father — letters  written  years  before 
the  treason — and  the  writing  was  identi 
cal. 

"What — what  will  you  take  for  this 
letter?"  asked  DePuyster. 

"It  will  be  sold  at  auction  in  two  weeks' 
time,"  the  clerk  answered,  politely. 

"But  I  would  like  to  purchase  it  be 
fore  the  sale." 

"Sorry,  sir,  but  its  owner  will  sell  only 
at  public  sale.  The  competition  will 
cause  it  to  bring  a  high  price." 

"Who  is  the  owner?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Can't  you  find  out?" 

"He  desires  to  remain  unknown." 

"Tell  him  for  me,  that  I  will  give  any 
price  for  it  before  it  is  published  in  the 
catalogue." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  Mr.  Hooker  also 
came  here  to  examine  it.  He  wanted  to 
buy  it.  He  is  a  great  expert,  you  know, 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      77 

and  he  always  desired  a  letter  of  General 
Arnold's — about  the  treason.  Mr.  Ster 
ling  also  wants  it.  He  has  a  letter  giving 
the  amount  Arnold  received  for  betraying 
his  country.  It  is  said  his  letter  is  worth 
five  thousand  dollars.  This  is  worth  al 
most  as  much." 

"I'll  give  him  five  thousand  for  this 
one." 

"No,  sir.  You  will  have  to  wait  until 
the  sale." 

Mr.  Hooker  sat  at  the  club  window. 
The  feminine  decorations  of  the  Avenue 
did  not  interest  him.  He  was  thinking 
of  poor  DePuyster.  Someone  had  just 
told  him  that  DePuyster  had  remained 
indoors,  not  daring  to  show  his  face  at 
the  Club.  He  was  at  his  apartments 
drinking  Scotch  whiskeys  to  take  his 
mind  away  from  the  letter  which  haunted 
him.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  into 
pedigrees  and  genealogies,  which  used  to 
be  his  constant  companions. 


78 

Hooker  was  actually  sorry  for  the  de 
scendant  of  the  stalwart  Revolutionary 
hero,  who  dared  not  face  his  friends — 
much  less  his  enemies.  He  would  give 
the  old  man  a  tip!  he  said  to  himself. 
Anyhow  it  was  delicious  to  have  seen  De- 
Puyster's  face  when  the  accusation  was 
made. 

"DePuyster  made  me  so  nervous  that 
I  just  had  to  do  it.  But  I'll  give  him  a 
hint.  I'll  write  him,  telling  him  perhaps 
the  letter  is  a  forgery.  That  will  give 
him  a  chance.  As  a  gentleman  of  honor, 
I  shall  write  him.  I  should  wish  the 
proof,  like  his  ancestors,  to  be  "above  sus 
picion!" 

The  letter  was  received  by  DePuyster, 
who  becoming  suddenly  brave,  faced  the 
light  of  day,  and  made  the  astounding 
charge  to  the  president  of  the  auction- 
house  that  the  Arnold  (Gustavus)  letter 
was  nothing  but  a  forgery!  A  rank  imi 
tation,  a  fabrication  to  blackmail  a  noble 


family  distinguished  for  three  hundred 
years  in  American  History! 

The  president  grew  angry;  the  letter 
had  been  passed  upon  by  well-known  ex 
perts,  as  well  as  their  own  cataloguers  of 
autographs;  it  was  undoubtedly  genuine, 
and  would  be  sold  as  such. 

"I'll  sue  you  for  damages,  if  you  pub 
lish  that  letter  before  it  is  passed  upon  by 
the  greatest  experts  in  the  world." 

"Go  ahead  and  sue,"  said  the  president, 
turning  away. 

DePuyster,  however,  had  among  his 
numerous  acquaintances,  many  famous 
lawyers,  one  of  whom  secured  an  injunc 
tion,  preventing  the  sale,  and  impounding 
the  letter. 

It  came  later  before  the  Court  which, 
with  unusual  wisdom,  stated  that  the  mat 
ter  should  be  decided  by  three  disinter 
ested  experts,  one  to  be  selected  by  the 
Court,  one  by  the  auction-house,  and  one 
by  DePuyster. 


8o      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

The  contestants  assembled  in  the  little 
court-room  which  was  crowded  with 
friends  of  the  parties  to  the  suit,  and 
eminent  autograph  and  book-collectors. 
They  came  from  many  cities  to  hear  the 
wrangle  over  the  famous  letter,  and  to 
witness  the  battle  of  the  experts. 

The  name  of  each  expert  was  placed  in 
an  envelope,  and  sealed. 

"The  appointment  of  the  Court — is 
Robert  Hooker,"  announced  the  judge, 
tearing  to  pieces  the  envelope. 

"The  expert  for  the  defense,"  read  the 
judge,  tearing  open  another  envelope,  "is 
Robert  Hooker. 

"The  expert  that  will  represent  the 
plaintiff,"  continued  His  Honor,  break 
ing  with  his  fingers  the  manila  paper,  "is 
Robert  Hooker." 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  corner 
where  Robert  Hooker  sat  unconcerned. 
He  seemed,  in  a  measure,  overwhelmed 
by  this  new  distinction. 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      81 

He  had  been  known  the  world  over  as 
a  collector  of  autographs  and  manu 
scripts,  but  he  had  never  been  called  upon 
as  an  expert. 

Hooker  arose.  He  examined  the  letter 
but  for  an  instant. 

"I  have  formed  an  opinion,  Your 
Honor." 

"So  soon?" 

"Yes." 

"What  is  your  decision?" 

"It  is  a  forgery  1" 

"Are  you  certain?" 

"Without  a  shadow  of  a  doubt!" 

"Why  are  you  so  positive,"  queried 
the  Judge,  "when  so  many  other  authori 
ties  state  that  it  is  genuine?" 

"I  am  positive,"  said  Hooker,  "be 
cause  I  wrote  it  myself!" 

There  was  an  uproar  in  the  Court 

"Please  explain,  sir,"  said  the  judge 
sternly. 

"DePuyster  had  become  such  a  pest, 


82      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

such  a  terror  to  his  friends  by  his  family 
anecdotes  and  antique  stories  that  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  I  was  literally  bored 
to  death.  I  made  the  charge  in  jest. 
DePuyster  took  it  so  seriously  that  I  was 
compelled  to  supply  the  proof.  I  pur 
chased  an  old  sheet  of  writing  paper  with 
the  water-mark  of  the  Revolutionary 
period.  I  practised  for  hours,  so  I  could 
imitate  General  Arnold's  handwriting. 
When  I  finished  the  letter  I  almost 
thought  it  an  original  myself!  The  farce 
was  wonderful!  The  hoax — a  joy!  I 
thought  that  I  had  become  a  Good 
Samaritan  who  had  saved  his  friends 
from  a  very  tiresome  old  gentleman  with 
a  hobby  for  family  history.  When  my 
name  was  first  called — I  hesitated,  but 
when  you  all  selected  me,  I  was  over 
whelmed  with  the  distinguished  honor. 
I  told  the  truth,  and  spoiled  a  story." 

"You  have  created  a  story!"  said  the 
judge. 


"THE  HUNDRED  AND  FIRST 
STORY" 

THE  owner  did  not  at  the  time  of  the 
robbery  suspect  anyone.  The  vol 
ume  had  disappeared ;  that  was  all.  Yes 
terday  the  famous  copy  of  Boccaccio 
printed  by  Valdarfer  in  the  year  of  grace 
1471  had  been  one  of  the  talked-of  things 
in  John  Libro's  famous  library.  It  had 
reposed  in  its  case  along  with  its  ancient 
companions,  who  in  the  silence  of  the 
night  would  relate  to  one  another  the  right 
merry  tales  of  Fair  Jehan,  of  Patient 
Grissel,  of  Launcelot  du  Lac;  and  their 
morocco  sides  would  shake  with  laughter 
at  the  quips  of  Giovanni  Boccaccio,  of 
Certaldo,  and  the  rude,  trenchant  jests  of 
Master  Francis  Rabelais.  The  fine  old 
volume,  which  had  been  the  envy  and  de 
spair  of  book-lovers,  had  only  recently 
83 


84      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

been  added  to  the  collection  of  Mr.  Libro. 
In  1812  it  had  the  proud  record  of  sell 
ing  for  over  £2000  and  since  then  it  had 
a  most  splendid  career,  having  been 
fondled  and  loved  by  only  the  elite  of  the 
bibliomaniac  world.  Its  owners  had 
been  knights,  viscounts,  dukes,  kings,  em 
perors, — and  bibliophiles! 

On  the  night  of  December  12,  1910,  the 
"Valdarfer  Boccaccio,"  as  it  had  been 
termed,  had  been  shown  to  a  number  of 
members  of  the  "Maioli  Club,"  a  club 
consisting  only  of  those  interested  in  rare 
prints,  books,  typography,  early  manu 
scripts,  and  money.  The  volume,  after 
having  been  sufficiently  admired, 
handled,  looked  into,  collated  and  gos- 
sfpeaf*7)ver,^was  locked  in  its  case  by  Mr. 
Libro,  who  felt  a  feeling  of  relief  when 
the  doors  were  shut  and  the  key  stored 
safely  in  his  pocket.  He  did  not  like  the 
rude  way  some  of  the  younger  and  inex 
perienced  members  handled  the  precious 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      85 

gift  of  the  gods ;  and  a  very  thoughtful  and 
scholarly  collector  had  the  audacity  and 
unheard  of  temerity  to  read  it! 

The  next  morning  on  going  into  the 
library  all  Mr.  Libro  saw  was  a  vacancy 
in  his  favorite  bookcase.  Between  the 
Dante  of  1481  and  the  Aldine  "Poliphi- 
lus"  was  an  oblong  space  that  had  been 
so  gloriously  rilled  by  the  distinguished 
production  of  the  press  of  Italy.  The 
Boccaccio  had  vanished! 

The  news  of  its  loss  was  flashed  over 
the  entire  world.  Comment  on  its 
strange  disappearance  was  general;  ar 
ticles  appeared  in  the  newspapers  on  how 
to  safeguard  the  world's  great  literary 
treasures;  the  London  Times  had  a  lead 
ing  article  in  which  it  was  stated  that 
"America  did  not  deserve  to  own  things 
of  inestimable  artistic  and  intellectual 
value  if  it  did  not  know  how  to  preserve 
them." 

The  first  thing  a  gentleman  does  when 


86      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

he  has  been  robbed  is  to  call  in  a  detec 
tive  whose  name  is  always  a  household 
word  in  novels  and  plays.  Mr.  Libro  re 
quested  John  Bunting  to  aid  him  with  his 
advice,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  overwhelmed  with  suggestions 
from  every  newspaper  reporter  in  the 
United  States  and  Canada. 

At  noon  Bunting  called.  After  asking 
the  usual  questions,  which  although  a 
great  detective,  he  did  not  disdain  to  do, 
he  requested  Mr.  Libro  to  tell  him  the 
names  of  his  guests  of  the  night  before. 

"But,  Mr.  Bunting,  I  tell  you  I  myself 
locked  the  case,  put  the  key  in  my  pocket, 
and  retired.  They  could  not  possibly 
have  extracted  it  in  my  presence,  and  I 
saw  the  last  of  them  to  the  door." 

"I  would  like  their  names." 

"But  I  do  not  suspect  any  of  them,  Mr. 
Bunting." 

"That  is  not  so,  Mr.  Libro,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  to  say  so.  You  do  not  care  to 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      87 

admit  it,  but  you  suspect  someone  of  that 
Literary  Club." 

"I  am  suspicious  of  my  best  friends,  but 
dare  not  indicate  any  one.  If  you  want 
their  names,  I  shall  tell  you — James 
Blakely,  the  great  authority  on  Eliza 
bethan  Poetry;  Henry  Sterling,  of  Ster 
ling,  Petty  &  Co.;  Robert  Rodd,  who 
knows  more  about  the  first  editions  of 
Paradise  Lost  than  anyone;  Edward 
Stevens;  James  Janney — that's  five — 
there  were  six, —  Oh,  yes,  Robert 
Hooker.  He  is  quite  a  student  but  does 
not  possess  the  bank  account  to  buy  all  the 
books  he  wants.  He  would  spend  a  mil 
lion  a  year  if  he  had  it.  He  was  the  un- 
derbidder  on  the  Boccaccio.  Yes,  Mr. 
Bunting,  Hooker  came  near  owning  it 
once.  I  sent  an  unlimited  bid  for  it  at 
the  Sunderland  Sale.  He  tried  to  buy  it 
from  the  bookseller  who  acted  as  my 
agent,  when  he  found  his  own  bid  had  not 
been  high  enough." 


"Mr.  Libro,  that  is  interesting.  It  was 
no  ordinary  thief,  however,  who  took  it. 
The  ordinary  New  Yorker  does  not  know 
the  difference  between  that  book  and  one 
by  Marie  Corelli!" 

Bunting  began  the  investigation  at 
once.  He  followed  zealously  every  clew. 
A  few  notorious  criminals,  who  were  seen 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  house, 
were  interviewed  without  result.  One  of 
them,  who  had  been  noticed  a  block  from 
the  house  shortly  after  midnight,  was 
locked  up  on  suspicion.  He  was  dis 
charged  from  custody  the  next  morning 
as  nothing  could  be  proved  against  him. 
This  individual,  who  was  known  to  the 
police  as  "Booky"  Phillips,  had  been  ar 
rested  many  times,  but  never  convicted. 
The  Chief  found  him  quite  placid  under 
the  rapid  fire  of  his  questions.  He  had 
read  of  the  lost  Boccaccio  in  the  Herald, 
but  did  not  understand  why  any  "self-re- 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      89 

specting  thief  would  stoop  to  steal  a 
worthless  old  book!" 

As  a  last  resort  Bunting  was  compelled 
to  investigate  the  members  of  the  Maioli 
Club.  Although  they  were  book-lovers 
the  detective  found,  much  to  his  surprise, 
that  they  were  respectable  citizens.  He 
called  one  day  upon  Mr.  Hooker  with 
out  giving  notice  of  his  visit. 

"Mr.  Hooker,"  he  said,  "I  would  like 
to  know  about  the  book  missing  from  the 
Libro  collection.  Do  you  know  where 
it  is?" 

Mr.  Hooker  seemed  to  be  choking. 
His  face  grew  red  and  he  could  not  an 
swer  for  the  moment.  Bunting  repeated 
the  question  and  Hooker  grew  angry. 

"How  dare  you  ask  me  such  a  thing? 
You  are  so  accustomed  to  dealing  with 
thieves  that  you  try  your  crude  methods 
on  everyone.  The  book  will  turn  up 
sometime;  meanwhile  myself  and  all  my 


90     THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

friends  will  be  continually  annoyed  by 
your  insults  and  threats.     Good-day." 

The  detective  left.  He  felt  sure  that 
Hooker  knew  more  than  he  cared  to  ad 
mit.  Perhaps  the  book  was  even  now 
upon  his  shelves.  He  would  have  his 
house  and  office  searched.  This  was 
done.  The  Boccaccio  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

Two  years  passed.  The  Valdarfer 
Boccaccio,  which  had  been  a  day's  won 
der,  was  forgotten  by  all  except  Mr. 
Libro  and  Mr.  Hooker.  They  saw  each 
other  rarely  after  the  loss  of  the  unlucky 
volume;  in  fact  they  avoided  each  other. 
The  incident  was  never  mentioned  among 
the  members  of  the  Maioli  Club — it  was 
a  thing  never  to  be  spoken  of  at  its  meet 
ings. 

It  was,  however,  again  to  be  the  sub 
ject  of  talk  and  gossip.  On  December 
12,  1912,  two  years  to  a  day  after  its 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      91 

strange  disappearance,  the  volume  turned 
up  in  all  the  glory  of  its  illuminated  page 
and  superb  morocco  binding.  Giovanni 
Boccaccio  had  added  another  story  to  the 
Hundred  that  composed  his  immortal 
collection. 

And  where  had  it  been  found?  The 
last  place  in  the  entire  world.  In  the 
New  York  Public  Library!  For  almost 
two  years  it  had  reposed  there,  with  no 
one  to  cherish  it  or  dip  into  its  witty  con 
tents.  In  a  book-case,  side  by  side  with 
other  great  masterpieces  of  literature,  it 
had  remained  neglected  by  the  inhabitants 
of  New  York,  who  in  the  newspapers  of 
that  great  city  figure  as  learned  and 
scholarly!  The  old  story,  "that  the  best 
place  to  hide  a  book  was  in  a  Wall  Street 
broker's  office"  was  found  to  be  pleasant 
but  fanciful  fiction!  It  was  far  safer  in 
the  public  library:  no  one  would  look  for 
it  there! 

On  the  morning  of  the  twelfth  of  De- 


92 

cember  a  gentleman  came  to  the  Inquiry 
Desk.  He  appeared  to  Mr.  Jones,  one 
of  the  assistant  librarians,  to  be  interested 
in  books  on  the  subject  of  Religion,  so  he 
requested  the  visitor  to  go  with  him  to  the 
book-stacks,  as  there  were  too  many  of 
them  to  carry  to  the  reading  tables.  And 
theological  books  were  always  so  heavy! 
While  looking  over  the  collection  the  man 
called  Mr.  Jones'  attention  to  the  label  of 
John  Libro  in  one  of  them,  and  asked 
why  the  "Decameron"  of  Boccaccio  was 
put  among  the  religious  books?  Mr. 
Jones  blushed!  He  gasped,  however, 
when  he  recognized  the  long-lost  volume. 
He  would  take  it  at  once  to  the  principal 
librarian.  He  first  asked  the  stranger's 
name, — the  fortunate  discoverer  of  the 
missing  treasure.  He  gave  Mr.  Jones  his 
card.  Engraved  thereon  was  "B.  Phil 
lips." 

The  newspapers  were  full  of  the  curi 
ous   recovery  of   the   Boccaccio,     §ome 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      93 

were  quite  facetious  about  it  and  went  so 
far  as  to  call  the  great  building  on  Fifth 
Avenue  a  Literary  Mausoleum.  Others 
suggested  that  the  State  should  appropri 
ate  money  for  the  purchase  of  modern  sex 
novels, — the  only  books  that  were  really 
read!  But  despite  the  jibes  and  explana 
tions  the  real  mystery  was  unsolved. 
How  was  the  book  stolen  and  why? 

Three  days  later  the  following  letter 
appeared  in  the  newspapers.  It  is  given 
here  because  it  will  make  a  fitting  ending 
to  the  Hundred  and  First  Tale  of  the 
Decameron. 

New  York,  December  14,  1912. 
Sir: 

I  have  read  with  interest  the  various 
explanations  given  in  the  papers  con 
cerning  the  disappearance  of  the  book 
from  Mr.  Libro's  library.  I  can  sup 
ply  the  key  to  the  whole  problem. 

Some  two  years  or  so  ago,  I  was 
stone  broke.  One  day  I  read  that  Mr. 
Libro  had  purchased  at  a  great  price 
the  book  which  has  caused  all  this 


94      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

commotion.  I  thought  I  would  lift  it 
some  night  when  I  had  nothing  better 
to  do,  and  sell  it  back  to  its  owner  or 
some  other  book  crank.  I  called  one 
afternoon  at  the  Libro  house  with 
some  magazines  on  pretence  of  secur 
ing  subscriptions.  The  ruse  worked. 
Mr.  Libro  ordered  the  Bookman, — a 
magazine  I  had  never  heard  of.  He 
showed  me  one  or  two  of  his  books, — 
these  maniacs  always  want  to  show  you 
their  things.  I  was  bored  to  death,  as 
you  can  imagine. 

While  he  was  signing  the  subscrip 
tion  blank  I  made  a  wax  impression  of 
the  key  to  the  cases.  That  night  I  did 
a  second  story  job.  The  window  was 
open.  I  easily  found  the  library.  But 
where  was  the  confounded  book?  I 
looked  everywhere.  There  semed  to 
be  millions  of  books.  In  one  case  I  no 
ticed  a  shelf  that  was  uneven.  I  looked 
at  it.  I  saw  the  name  "Boccaccio."  I 
placed  the  volume  underneath  my  coat 
and  left. 

The  evening  papers  were  filled  with 
the  news.  What  could  I  do  with  the 
volume?  I  could  not  keep  it  in  my 
room,  as  I  feared  the  police  would  find 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      95 

it.  I  did  not  dream  that  it  would  be 
missed  so  soon,  and  I  did  not  antici 
pate  all  this  fuss  over  a  shabby  old 
book.  I  tried  to  think  of  a  place  to 
hide  it,  but  could  not.  One  of  the 
papers  said  that  a  Richard  Hooker  was 
the  other  crank  who  had  bid  for  it  at 
the  auction  sale.  If  I  went  to  him 
now  he  would  refuse  to  buy  it  and  ar 
rest  me. 

I  tried  another  and  surer  course. 
That  night  I  went  to  Hooker's  house, — 
another  second  story  job — and  left  the 
cursed  book  in  the  most  conspicuous 
place  in  the  library.  The  next  day  I 
called  on  him.  I  said  I  was  Mr. 
Scott, — a  detective.  I  accused  him  of 
stealing  the  book  from  Mr.  Libro.  He 
said  I  lied.  I  told  him  he  had  the  book 
in  his  house  now.  From  the  expression 
on  his  face  I  knew  I  had  him.  He  said 
he  had  found  the  book  in  his  library, 
but  had  not  taken  it  and  did  not  know 
how  it  had  got  there.  I  asked  him  if 
he  thought  anyone  would  believe  him. 
He  said — No!  Everyone  would  think 
he  had  stolen  it.  Hooker  offered  me  a 
thousand  dollars  to  take  the  book  and 
say  nothing.  I  accepted  two  thou- 


96      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

sand  dollars  in  cash.  I  took  the  book, 
but  where  to  hide  it  I  did  not  know. 
It  was  under  my  coat  when  I  was  pass 
ing  42nd  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue.  A 
thought  struck  me.  I  would  place  it 
where  it  would  never  be  found.  The 
people  here  have  no  time  to  read 
books;  it  was  the  best  place  of  all.  In 
a  moment  I  was  in  the  library;  I  threw 
the  cursed  old  thing  on  one  of  the 
shelves.  I  left  in  great  glee. 

At  the  corner  of  4Oth  Street  and  the 
Avenue  I  was  arrested  by  one  of  Cap 
tain  Bunting's  men.  They  tried  to  get 
something  on  me,  but  could  not.  I  was 
innocent! 

I  am  on  my  way  to  London  to  visit 
the   British   Museum,   for   I   find   the 
study  of  books  profitable. 
Yours  very  truly, 

B.  PHILLIPS. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  BREVIARY 

THE  Abelard  Missal  was  lost  to  him 
forever. 

When  Mr.  Richard  Blaythwaite  was 
alive,  Robert  Hooker  had  a  small  chance, 
one  in  ten  thousand  perhaps,  of  securing 
it  and  adding  this  beautiful  memento  of 
the  Renaissance  to  his  "museum  of  the 
imagination."  But  now  that  Blayth 
waite  was  dead,  all  hope  of  owning  it 
had  vanished. 

Hooker  would  not  have  hesitated,  in 
the  cause  of  the  public,  to  have  taken  it  by 
fair  means  or  foul  from  Blaythwaite,  but 
he  would  not  rob  a  woman.  He  was 
singularly  squeamish  upon  this  point. 

Richard  Blaythwaite  had  left  every 
thing  to  his  only  daughter,  including  the 
famous  Abelard  missal. 

97 


98      THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

It  was  a  marvelous  manuscript  dating 
from  the  sixteenth  century,  and  contained 
at  the  end  the  beautiful  and  tragic  story 
of  those  mediaeval  lovers,  Abelard  and 
Heloise. 

The  pictures  that  decorated  the  missal, 
however,  were  its  chief  glory.  .  .  .  They 
were  the  work  of  Giulio  Clovio,  and  exe 
cuted  by  the  great  miniaturist  for  Philip 
the  Second  of  Spain.  The  full  page  il 
luminations,  with  the  exquisite  colors, 
heightened  with  gold,  were  worth  a 
king's  ransom,  or  a  queen's  reputation. 
The  binding  was  in  keeping  with  the  su 
perb  quality  of  the  breviary,  being  in  old 
purple  morocco,  the  royal  arms  of  Cas 
tile  impressed  in  gold  upon  the  sides. 

Hooker  tried  in  every  way  but  could 
not  give  up  the  idea  of  being  its  possessor. 
It  haunted  him  at  night,  and  during  the 
day  his  mind  constantly  reverted  to  its 
matchless  colors  and  quaint  designs. 

He  knew   Miss   Blaythwaite   slightly, 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS      99 

having  met  her  in  former  days  at  her  fa 
ther's  house,  when  he  used  to  delight  in 
looking  over  his  famous  library.  The 
pity  of  it  all  was  that  the  missal  was  to  be 
in  the  keeping  of  a  woman.  If  it  had 
gone  to  some  collector  who  would  treasure 
it  as  a  delectable  gift  of  the  gods,  it  would 
not  be  so  bad.  But  to  a  woman!  The 
thought  almost  drove  him  mad. 

One  evening,  in  despair,  he  resolved  to 
call  at  the  fine  old  house,  and  glance  once 
more  at  the  lovely  picture  of  Abelard  im 
printing  his  last  kiss  upon  the  lips  of 
Heloise. 

He  felt  some  misgivings,  when  he  was 
told  that  Miss  Blaythwaite  was  at  home 
and  would  see  him.  He  almost  hated 
her,  and  he  could  not  forbear  the  thought 
that  the  Abelard  missal  was  no  more  to 
her  than  her  pet  dog,  or  the  bracelet  upon 
her  fair  wrist. 

When  she  entered  the  room,  he  was 
taken  aback.  When  he  saw  her  some 


ioo    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

years  ago,  she  was  but  a  slip  of  a  girl,  with 
long  hair  down  her  back.  She  was  now 
tall  and  stately,  with  beautiful  deep  blue 
eyes.  She  was  dressed  simply;  and 
Hooker  thought  exceedingly  well,  but  he 
was  not  a  judge.  He  knew  more  about 
the  morocco  covering  of  an  old  book  than 
a  lady's  apparel. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Hooker.  I'm 
glad  you  called,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Blaythwaite.  It's 
been  a  long  time  since  I've  had  the  pleas 
ure  of  seeing  you." 

"Yes,  you've  rather  neglected  us  lately. 
Are  you  still  interested  in  books?  Poor 
father  had  quite  a  mania  for  them." 

"That's  what  first  brought  me  to  the 
house.  Do  you  remember  how  we  used 
to  spend  hours  going  over  his  books?" 

"Hours?  It  seemed  ages  to  mother 
and  me.  Poor  mother,  how  furious  she 
used  to  be  when  father  brought  those  dusty 
old  books  into  the  house.  She  used  to 


say  that  father  threw  away  his  money  on 
them.  He'd  give  a  hundred  dollars  for  a 
shabby  old  thing,  when  he  could  have 
bought  a  nice,  modern  edition  for  five." 

At  this,  Robert  Hooker  was  speech 
less! 

"I  suppose  you  would  like  to  see  some 
of  the  additions  to  the  library,"  Miss 
Blaythwaite  continued,  "father  bought 
books  until  he  died.  You  know  he  caught 
pneumonia  by  going  to  an  auction-sale, 
one  cold  day  last  winter.  This  is  the  book 
he  bought, — but  at  what  a  cost!" 

She  took  from  the  shelves  which  lined 
the  walls,  a  small  volume.  It  was  a  copy 
of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  the  first  edition ; 
published  in  1609. 

"And  the  strange  part  of  it  all,  Mr. 
Hooker,  I  believe  in  my  heart  that  papa 
never  regretted  its  purchase." 

Hooker  was  about  to  remark  that  it  was 
worth  the  risk,  but  checked  himself  in 
time. 


102    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"It  was  foolish.  Your  father,  how 
ever,  was  a  true  bibliophile." 

Miss  Blaythwaite  returned  this  volume 
of  volumes  to  its  position  in  the  case,  and 
when  Hooker  saw  it,  he  turned  pale.  She 
had  put  it  in  upside  down — a  terrible 
thing  to  do.  One  would  have  to  stand 
upon  his  head  to  read  the  title,  and  book- 
lovers  do  not  believe  in  gymnastics. 

He  immediately  placed  it  in  its  proper 
position,  carefully,  tenderly — as  if  it  had 
been  a  baby,  which  was  precious  to  him, 
but  not  quite  so  precious  as  an  old  book  or 
manuscript! 

"Father  could  not  bear  us  to  put  books 
in  upside  down,  but  mother  and  I  would 
often  forget,  and  the  way  father  scolded, 
you  would  think  we  had  committed  a 
horrid  crime." 

At  this,  they  both  laughed. 

When  Hooker  was  shown  the  breviary, 
he  lingered  for  a  long  time  over  its  magic 
pages.  He  felt  the  cool  vellum  leaves 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     103 

with  his  fingers,  for  fear  lest  the  missal 
would  slip  through  his  hand,  and  disap 
pear  forever! 

For  over  two  months,  Hooker  was  a 
constant  visitor  at  the  Blaythwaite  home. 
He  became  intimately  acquainted  with 
every  book  in  the  library;  he  could  tell 
the  exact  date  of  publication  of  the  early 
printed  volumes;  the  place  where  it  was 
printed ;  the  name  of  the  binder,  and  other 
useless  information. 

Even  Miss  Blaythwaite  caught  some  of 
the  contagion.  She,  who  had  formerly 
cared  nothing  for  her  father's  "play 
things,"  became  interested  in  them. 
Sometimes  she  would  take  down  from  a 
shelf  a  volume  of  old  English  poetry,  and 
become  absorbed  in  the  lyrical  sweetness 
of  the  verse.  Occasionally,  she  would 
read  aloud  to  Hooker  some  beautiful 
poems  that  she  had  discovered  in  Ben  Jon- 
son,  in  Crashaw,  or  in  Herrick;  and  he 
would  tell  her  of  his  aspirations,  and  of 


104    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

the  Museum  that  existed  only  in  his  mind. 
He  told  her  of  the  wonderful  things  he 
already  possessed. 

Although  Hooker  had  known  Miss 
Blaythwaite  for  some  time,  she  was  to  him 
always,  the  Lady  of  the  Breviary. 

When  he  felt  the  delicious  warmth  of 
her  hand,  he  thought  of  the  missal ;  when 
she  was  seated  near  him,  poring  over 
some  old  volume  of  forgotten  lore,  his 
mind  turned  to  its  wonderful  binding,  or 
its  miraculous  miniatures.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  Miss  Blaythwaite  was  nothing 
more  to  him  than  the  guardian  and  sole 
owner  of  a  book  that  his  soul  desired. 
Sometimes,  when  they  were  reading  to 
gether  some  volume  of  Elizabethan  verse, 
another  caller  would  be  announced; 
Hooker  would  be  presented,  and  then  he 
would  retire  gracefully  to  her  father's 
library,  leaving  the  field  clear  to  his  rival. 
This,  of  course,  was  not  flattering  to  Miss 
Blaythwaite ! 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     105 

One  night,  Jack  Worthing  was  there  be 
fore  him.  He  was  a  clean-cut,  manly  fel 
low,  interested  first  in  sports,  and  after 
that  in  business.  He  had  known  Miss 
Blaythwaite  for  years.  The  talk  turned, 
as  it  will  always  turn,  when  bibliophiles 
are  present,  upon  books. 

"I  don't  understand  you  fellows,"  said 
Worthing.  "You  think  more  of  an  old 
book  than  many  people  of  their  chil 
dren!" 

"Of  course!  Children  often  grow  up 
into  ill-mannered  youths  and  conceited 
young  ladies.  Books  always  remain 
young  and  delightful !" 

"But,  confound  it!  You  never  read 
them.  You  have  thousands  around  you 
all  the  time,  and  I  bet  you  don't  read  ten 
a  year."  , 

"Rare  books  are  meant  to  be  carefully 
nurtured  during  our  lives,  and  passed  on 
after  our  death  to  those  who  will  appre 
ciate  them.  Only  college  professors,  stu- 


106    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

dents,  scholars,  and  such  people  ever  read 
books,"  answered  Hooker,  contemptu 
ously. 

"I  think  book-men  the  most  foolish 
class  of  persons  on  earth,"  retorted 
Worthing.  "Give  me  some  good  old 
sport,  like  boxing,  or  foot-ball,  that  makes 
you  heart  tingle,  that  causes  the  red  blood 
to  shoot  through  your  veins — that  makes 
life  worth  living!  Man  wasn't  created  to 
spend  his  life  roaming  around  a  dusky  old 
library,  when  he  can  go  out  into  God's 
pure  air  and  enjoy  the  fields  and  the 
streams,  the  forests  and  the  lakes!" 

At  this,  Miss  Blaythwaite  seemed  to 
smile  approvingly. 

Hooker  said  nothing.  Bibliophiles  are 
not  missionaries.  They  do  not  go  into  the 
by-ways  of  the  world  to  uphold  their 
creeds,  for  the  love  of  books  is  such  a 
wonderful  thing  that  it  can  never  be  ex 
plained! 

When  he  left  Miss  Blaythwaite  that 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     107 

night,  he  felt  that  the  breviary  was  farther 
from  him  than  ever. 

Hooker,  however,  came  swiftly  to  a  de 
cision. 

The  only  way  he  could  obtain  the  Abe- 
lard  Missal,  was  by  marrying  Miss 
Blaythwaite.  The  next  evening  he 
called,  with  this  firmly  fixed  in  his  mind. 
This  wily,  calculating  book-worm  had 
slowly  crept  into  her  affections.  He 
knew  she  liked  him,  but  would  she  marry 
him? 

He  asked  her  with  great  fervor,  which 
was  assumed,  whether  she  would  become 
his  wife.  He  waited  breathlessly  for  her 
answer. 

"I  want  to  be  frank  with  you,  Robert," 
she  said.  "I  do  not  think  you  love  me." 

uHow  can  you  say  such  a  thing?" 

"Instinctively,  I  feel  it.  I  like  you,  but 
I  cannot  marry  you." 

"Why  not?     Is  there  someone  else?" 

Miss  Blaythwaite  smiled. 


"Yes." 

"I  never  dreamed  of  it.  Of  course  I 
might  have  known." 

"You  do  know,  Robert." 

"Is  it  Jack  Worthing?" 

"No." 

"Then,  who  is  it?" 

"It's  that  old  missal.  You  are  more  in 
love  with  that,  than  you  are  with  me.  I 
can  see  it  in  your  eyes,  in  your  talk,  in 
everything.  If  I  were  not  its  owner,  you 
would  never  come  near  me." 

"Then  you  will  not  marry  me?" 

"No,  I  cannot.  Do  you  know,  Rob 
ert,  I've  become  actually  jealous  of  that 
breviary,  and  intend  to  present  it  to  some 
library  or  museum!  It  ought,  by  right, 
to  go  to  the  Metropolitan." 

"For  God's  sake,"  Hooker  cried  in  mor 
tal  anguish,  "do  anything  but  that!" 

For  over  six  months  the  forlorn  biblio 
phile  remained  away  from  the  Lady  of  the 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     109 

Breviary.  Somehow  or  other,  it  was  not 
the  missal  which  was  foremost  in  his 
thoughts.  His  books,  his  autographs,  his 
porcelains,  his  engravings  had  no  longer 
the  charm  they  once  had.  He  no  longer 
took  an  interest  in  the  auction-sales,  and 
the  catalogues  that  came  to  him  would  lie 
neglected  upon  his  desk. 

He  looked  with  particular  distaste 
upon  the  "Three  Trees"  and  the  "Unpub- 
lishable  Memoirs"  and  the  Shakespeare- 
Bacon  volume.  He  even  thought  of  re 
turning  them  to  their  owners!  The  great 
institute  to  be  founded  and  called  after 
his  name,  was  a  thing  of  the  past!  He 
had  acted  like  a  cad,  he  said  to  himself. 
To  marry  a  woman  for  an  old  book  was 
almost  as  bad  as  marrying  for  money! 

One  evening,  Hooker  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  he  could  not  stand  this  loneli 
ness,  this  desolation,  any  longer.  He  in 
tended  to  leave  the  country,  to  wander  in 


i io    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

foreign  lands!  He  would  call  again 
upon  Miss  Blaythwaite  for  the  last  time, 
but  would  she  receive  him? 

His  heart  was  beating  rapidly  when 
the  maid  told  him  she  was  in,  and  would 
see  him. 

And  there  was  Jack  Worthing  with  her, 
looking  big  and  manly,  and  courageous  as 
ever! 

Miss  Blaythwaite  seemed  delighted  to 
see  him.  A  sudden  joy  seemed  to  over 
spread  her  features!  And  Hooker  no 
ticed  things  about  her  he  had  never  no 
ticed  before.  He  saw  the  appealing  dim 
ples  in  her  cheeks — the  fine  hair  blowing 
near  the  temples — the  exquisite  shape  of 
her  ears — the  wonderful  turquoise-blue  of 
her  eyes! 

And  Jack  Worthing  was  talking  of 
books!  A  miracle  had  happened!  Some 
how  or  other,  Miss  Blaythwaite  seemed 
to  take  a  decided  interest  in  the  library  left 
her  by  her  father,  and  during  the  last  half 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     in 

of  the  year,  she  was  continually  speaking 
to  Worthing  of  first  editions  and  Caxtons; 
of  Elzevirs  and  typography;  of  Ameri 
cana,  incunabula  and  such  ridiculous 
things,  and  all  in  a  jargon  that  was  quite 
unintelligible  to  him.  And  Worthing 
determined  to  study  the  things  she  liked, 
and  borrowed  some  reference-books  from 
a  library  that  told  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
book-lovers'  cult.  And  when  Hooker 
heard  Worthing  speak  of  the  rare  first 
edition  of  Poe's  Tamerlane,  he  almost 
fainted  with  surprise! 

"Don't  you  want  to  look  over  father's 
books,  Mr.  Hooker,"  asked  Miss  Blayth- 
waite.  "You  may  go  in  the  library  as 
usual,  and  make  yourself  at  home.  I 
have  added  a  few  things  myself!" 

"No,  thank  you,  I'd  rather  remain  here. 
Which  side  do  you  think  will  win  the  polo 
match  to-morrow?  Meadowbrook?" 

At  this,  Miss  Blaythwaite  and  Worth 
ing  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment. 


ii2    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

Hooker  thought  he  saw  a  mysterious  un 
derstanding  between  them.  He  became 
at  once  insanely  jealous  of  the  athletic 
young  man  who  was  discoursing  so  elo 
quently  of  Tamerlane  "in  boards,  uncut." 

"Meadowbrook?"  persisted  Hooker. 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  Worthing,  in 
an  uninterested  manner. 

Yes,  this  talk  of  books  had  become  de 
cidedly  distasteful  to  the  once  enthusiastic 
bibliophile. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Hooker,"  said  Miss 
Blaythwaite,  "I've  made  up  my  mind 
about  the  Abelard  missal.  Jack  and  I 
think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  give  it  to 
the  Metropolitan  Museum." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Miss  Blayth- 
waita,"  said  poor  Hooker.  "There  it 
would  always  be  safe  from  fire,  and  could 
be  seen  by  the  public.  It  is  certainly  the 
proper  thing  to  do." 

At  this,  Miss  Blaythwaite  seemed  over 
joyed. 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS    113 

When  Worthing  left,  after  an  inter 
minable  time,  Robert  Hooker  sat  by  her 
side  upon  the  old  Chippendale  sofa  in  her 
father's  library.  When  she  discoursed  of 
books  and  learning,  he  would  quietly 
change  the  subject. 

He  wanted  to  hear  about  herself,  and 
what  she  had  been  doing  since  he  saw  her 
last.  As  for  himself — he  was  goingjiway. 
He  was  taking  a  steamer  next  Saturday 
for  Europe. 

She  asked  him  quietly  if  he  did  not 
want  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  breviary. 

"Damn  the  breviary!"  he  said  to  him 
self.  He  did  not  care  particularly  about 
it,  but  she  insisted. 

He  took  the  precious  volume  from  its 
place  on  the  shelf,  and  together  they 
looked  at  the  marvelous  illustrations  that 
traced  so  vividly  the  history  of  the  two 
devoted  lovers. 

They  glanced  not  at  the  calendar,  or 
the  litany  that  came  first  in  the  breviary, 


ii4    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

but  bent  their  heads  over  the  lovely  min 
iatures  that  narrated  so  touchingly  the 
tragic  story. 

When  they  came  to  the  picture  showing 
the  final  parting  of  Abelard  from  his  be 
loved  Heloise,  Hooker  looked  at  Miss 
Blaythwaite. 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

''Robert,"  she  said  tenderly,  "I'm  not 
going  to  present  it  to  the  Metropolitan. 
I'll  give  it  to  the  Hooker  Museum! 
Then — we  both  can  always  enjoy  it." 


THE  EVASIVE  PAMPHLET 

HE  was  disappointed  again! 
He  sat  alone  in  his  office  think 
ing  of  the  auction  sale  of  the  day  before. 
A  copy  of  the  rare  first  edition  of  "The 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  the  im 
mortal  story  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  was  lost 
to  him  and  his  heirs  for  ever  more. 

He  had  gone  to  the  auction  with  the 
virtuous  intention  of  buying  it;  when  the 
shabby  little  pamphlet  with  its  brown 
paper  wrappings — printed  in  Philadel 
phia  in  1843 — was  offered,  the  bidding 
was  remarkably  spirited.  It  was  finally 
sold  to  a  distinguished  collector  for  thirty- 
eight  hundred  dollars.  He  had  been  the 
underbidder,  but  what  chance  had  a  poor 
devil  of  a  bibliophile  against  the  wealthy 
captains  of  industry?  At  sales  of  this 

"5 


ii6    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

character  the  race  is  not  to  the  swift,  but  to 
the — rich ! 

Robert  Hooker  had  once  owned  a  copy 
of  this  precious  volume.  This  made  his 
disappointment  the  keener.  It  was  a 
more  interesting  example  than  the  one 
that  had  just  been  offered  under  the  ham 
mer  of  the  auctioneer,  for  it  had  been  a 
presentation  copy  with  a  simple  though 
beautiful  inscription  written  in  the  deli 
cate  handwriting  of  the  poet  upon  the 
title-page: 

"To  Virginia  from  E.  A.  P." 

This  was  the  very  copy  the  greatest  of 
story-tellers  had  lovingly  given  to  his 
wife.  Years  ago  it  had  mysteriously  dis 
appeared  from  Hooker's  office,  where  he 
had  kept  it  in  a  fire-proof,  feeling 
it  was  more  secure  there  than  on  the 
shelves  of  his  library.  He  sought  for  it 
everywhere,  offering  large  rewards  for  its 
return,  but  the  evasive  little  volume  never 
was  heard  of  again. 


Hooker  was  musing  over  his  "defeat" 
of  yesterday  in  the  salesroom  when  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  fate  of  his  own 
copy.  Where  was  it?  What  was  its  his 
tory?  Its  possessor  could  not  seek  a  pur 
chaser,  because  the  inscription  on  the  title- 
page  would  instantly  identify  it.  Had  it 
been  destroyed?  Was  it — 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir,  about  an 
old  book!" 

He  instantly  awoke  from  his  reverie. 
It  was  his  secretary  who  had  spoken. 

"Tell  him  I  have  no  money  for  such 
things!"  said  Hooker. 

John  Lawrence,  his  secretary,  did  not 
turn  away,  but  waited  with  the  flicker  of 
a  smile  upon  his  face.  He  knew  the 
foibles  of  his  employer.  He  had  been 
with  him  for  many  years.  And  a  really 
good  clerk  always  knows  his  master's 
weaknesses. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  John.     Perhaps  I 


can  give  him  a  few  minutes.  Tell  him 
to  come  in." 

"Hello,  Colonel!  What  can  I  do  for 
you  this  morning?"  said  Hooker  cheerily, 
to  a  middle-aged  man,  erect  of  figure,  who 
had  just  entered.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who  make  their  living  picking  up 
old  books,  old  guns,  old  papers,  old  coins, 
old  pictures,  old  everything.  He  also,  at 
times,  had  a  faculty  of  picking  up  old 
liquors,  which  was  not  good  for  him.  He 
was  known  as  the  "Colonel"  because  of 
his  military  bearing  and  his  interest  in  the 
Civil  War.  He  had  really  been  a  soldier 
serving  in  the  glorious  and  extensive  regi 
ment  known  as  the  home  guard. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Hooker.  I've  a 
matter  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  about — but 
in  the  strictest  confidence.  I'm  on  the 
track  of  a  really  fine  book." 

At  this  Hooker  smiled.  Although  in 
his  long  and  busy  life  and  in  his  strange 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     119 

wanderings  the  Colonel  had  secured  a  few 
good  things  his  "finds"  generally  turned 
out  to  be  of  no  value.  Hooker  had  fre 
quently  advanced  him  money  to  purchase 
what  the  Colonel  termed  "nuggets,"  but 
when  they  were  brought  to  him  changed, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  into  fool's  gold. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  said  Hooker,  rather 
impatiently,  fearing  another  tug  at  his 
purse-strings. 

"You've  read  this  morning's  papers? 
The  'Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue' 
brought  at  the  sale  yesterday  thirty-eight 
hundred  dol — " 

"Enough  of  that!"  retorted  Hooker, 
who  was  becoming  angry.  "I  never  want 
to  hear  of  that  damned  book  again!" 

"But  I  know  where  there's  another 
copy,"  presented  the  Colonel,  weakly. 

"So  do  I.     In  the  British  Museum!" 

"No,  Mr.  Hooker.  Right  here  in  New 
York." 


120    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"Where?" 

"But  you're  not  interested,  you  just 
said—"  ' 

"Of  course  I  am,  you  old  fool,  go  on!" 

"Well,  the  book's  in  an  old  house  down 
near  Washington  Square.  It'll  be  diffi 
cult  to  get.  Its  owner's  in  jail." 

"In  jail/" 

"Yes.  He's  serving  a  stretch — twenty 
years." 

"What  for?" 

"Murder!" 

"Now,  Colonel,  I  hope  you  didn't  come 
here  to  amuse  me  with  fairy  tales.  I'm 
very  busy  this  morning." 

"No.  That's  straight.  He's  up  for 
twenty  years.  He  murdered  his  sweet 
heart.  The  court  brought  in  a  verdict  of 
manslaughter,  so  he  got  a  light  sentence." 

"Well,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  the 
book?" 

"Have  patience,  Mr.  Hooker.  You 
know  of  the  Tomlinson  case?" 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     121 

"Never  heard  of  it." 

"Impossible,  sir!  The  newspapers 
were  filled  with  it  at  the  time.  Seven 
years  ago  every  one  was  talking  about  it 
and  surely  you  remember — " 

"No,  Colonel,  seven  years  ago  I  was  in 
Europe.  Tell  me  about  it." 

The  Colonel  went  into  details — 

In  June  of  1907  a  family  by  the  name 
of  Clarke  moved  into  two  rooms  in  a 
large,  old  fashioned  residence  on  Eighth 
Street,  near  Fifth  Avenue.  They  were 
there  for  less  than  a  month  when  they  gave 
the  landlord  notice.  They  could  not  re 
main  in  the  house  on  account  of  ghosts! 
Now  everyone  believes  in  ghosts  but  land 
lords.  It  injures  their  business. 

The  Clarkes  contended  that  every  night 
in  the  front  room  the  most  mysterious 
noises  were  heard ;  they  called  in  the  jani 
tor,  but  he  knew  nothing.  The  strange 
sounds  continued ;  they  were  uncanny,  in 
explicable.  The  Clarkes  moved  out  and 


122    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

they  were  succeeded  by  other  nervous  and 
hysterical  persons.  The  landlord  in  des 
peration  reduced  the  rent,  but  still  the  ten 
ants  would  not  remain. 

At  last  even  he,  who  was  sceptical  and 
would  not  believe  in  hobgoblins,  or 
ghosts,  or  spirits,  or  any  of  those  fantastic 
creatures  that  exist  outside  the  material 
mind,  resolved  to  investigate  for  himself. 
He  literally  camped  in  the  rooms  for 
months  and  heard  not  a  sound!  Every 
night  he  determined  would  be  his  last  and 
that  he  would  not  waste  any  more  of  his 
valuable  time  over  the  mystical  phantoms 
of  his  foolish  tenants. 

One  evening,  which  he  resolved  was  to 
be  the  final  one,  while  he  was  playing  sol 
itaire  to  pass  the  tedium  of  the  vigil,  he 
heard  a  noise  in  the  wall.  He  turned 
pale  with  fear.  A  cold  chill  ran  up  and 
down  his  back.  A  moment  later  the 
sound  of  a  falling  coin  reached  his  ears 
and  there  rolled  toward  him  from  the  old 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     123 

Georgian    fire-place    a    shining    object. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  before  he  had  the 
courage  to  pick  it  up.  It  was  a  small  gold 
ring.  He  examined  it  carefully  and  en 
graved  therein  were  the  initials  "M.  P. 
from  J.  L."  He  put  the  ring  in  his 
pocket,  removed  the  fire  dogs,  the  tongs, 
the  coal-scuttle  and  the  whole  parapher 
nalia  of  fire-places  and  looked  up  the  flue. 
He  could  see  nothing.  Although  it  was  a 
clear  night  he  could  not  see  the  stars. 
Something  was  in  the  way 

The  finding  next  day  of  the  poor, 
bruised  body  of  little  Marie  Perrin  up  the 
chimney  of  "No.  8"  was  the  sensation  of 
the  hour.  A  horrible  crime  had  been 
committed,  and  in  an  unknown  and  ter 
rible  way.  It  was  Edgar  Allan  Poe  in  a 
new  guise  and  his  wonderful  stories  im 
mediately  became  popular  and  new  edi 
tions  of  the  "Tales"  were  called  for  by  a 
new  set  of  readers.  Some  critics  of  crime 
suggested  that  the  "Murders  in  the  Rue 


124    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

Morgue"  had  been  repeated  at  No.  Eight 
East  Eighth  Street.  The  hiding-place  of 
the  body  was  identical  with  that  in  the 
famous  story  and  it  was  said  that  the 
police  were  on  the  look-out  for  apes, 
gorillas,  and  other  animals,  which  alone 
were  capable  of  committing  such  hideous 
crimes. 

The  whole  life  of  poor  little  Marie  was 
laid  bare.  Her  picture  was  in  every 
newspaper  and  her  history  was  given  from 
the  day  of  her  birth  with  remarkable  in 
genuity.  The  reporters,  with  uncon 
trolled  imaginations,  turned  out  from  the 
scanty  material  at  their  hands  an  excellent 
biographical  sketch,  that  seemed  and 
rang  true,  which  is  sufficient  for  the  read 
ing  public. 

Marie  Perrin  had  disappeared  without 
paying  her  rent  from  No.  Eight  over  a 
year  ago.  When  the  agent  came  to  col 
lect  the  arrears,  he  found  the  tenant  had 
departed  with  all  her  chattels.  This  was 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     125 

a  libel,  for  she  was  in  the  room  but  not 
visible.  The  detectives,  when  they  inves 
tigated  into  the  tragedy  and  after  asking 
ten  thousand  questions  in  a  thousand  and 
one  places,  found  out  that  Marie  had  a 
sweetheart  and  that  his  name  was  Richard 
Tomlinson.  He  refused  to  admit  his 
guilt,  but  after  being  prodded  with  the 
iron-fork  of  the  law,  technically  known  as 
the  "third  degree"  he  broke  down  and 
confessed.  In  a  fit  of  anger  he  struck 
her  over  the  head  with  the  brass  fire-tongs. 
He  had  no  intention  of  killing  her,  or 
even  harming  her,  but  he  had  become  in 
sanely  jealous  of  another  who  was  paying 
her  attentions.  In  fact  he  said  he  must 
have  been  mad  at  the  time,  as  he  did  not 
remember  having  struck  her  until  she  lay 
before  him,  quiet  and  cold  upon  the  floor. 
After  a  trial  lasting  over  two  weeks, 
and  full  of  sensational  incidents,  Tomlin 
son  was  sentenced  to  spend  twenty  years 
of  his  life  in  prison. 


126    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"That's  an  interesting  tale,"  said  Robert 
Hooker,  when  the  Colonel  had  stopped 
speaking,  "but  what  has  all  this  to  do  with 
the  first  edition  of  Poe's  story?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Tomlinson  was  a  friend 
of  mine.  He  told  me  that,  after  he  had 
accidentally  killed  the  girl,  he  was  ter 
ribly  frightened.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  the  body.  He  had  a  mind  to 
go  to  the  police  and  confess  all,  but  did 
not  have  the  courage  to  do  so.  He  re 
mained  in  a  trance,  he  thought,  for  hours, 
thinking  of  his  fearful  crime  and  the 
dreadful  consequences.  While  he  was  in 
this  deep,  agonizing  study  and  not  know 
ing  what  he  was  doing,  he  picked  up  a 
small  book  on  her  reading  table.  It  was 
'The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue.'  It 
was  the  title  that  attracted  him,  and  some 
compelling  force,  what  it  was  he  knew 
not,  caused  him  to  read  it.  He  told  me 
that  never  in  his  whole  life  had  anything 
so  interested  him  as  that  story  on  that 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     127 

frightful  occasion;  although  pursued  by 
terrible  fears  he  read  every  word,  every 
syllable  of  it.  The  rest  you  know." 

"But,  Colonel,"  said  Hooker,  with  one 
thought  uppermost  in  his  mind,  "it  might 
be  any  edition,  not  necessarily  the  first. 
There  have  been  hundreds  of  editions 
published.  How  do  you  know  what  edi 
tion  it  was?" 

"It  was  the  first,  Mr.  Hooker.  Tom- 
linson  told  me  the  girl  had  borrowed  it  to 
read  and  that  it  belonged  to  some  one  who 
had  a  mania  for  old  books  and  who  had 
kept  it  always  under  lock  and  key." 

"Do  you  know  where  it  is?" 

"Yes." 

"Can  you  get  it?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I  shall  make  it  worth  your  while. 
How  much  do  you  want?" 

"All  I  can  get.     I'll  have  to  steal  it!" 

"What!" 

"Yes,  I'll  have  to  steal  it.     It  cannot  be 


i28    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

had  in  any  other  way.  Why  do  you 
start?" 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  have  to  do  that!" 

"Yes.  You  see  Tomlinson,  when  he 
moved  from  those  furnished  rooms,  took 
everything  he  could  carry  to  his  brother's 
lodgings  near  Washington  Square.  The 
book  is  in  a  sealed  trunk  on  the  third  floor. 
Tomlinson  made  his  brother  promise  that 
this  trunk  was  not  to  be  disturbed  under 
any  circumstances  until  he  came  out  of 
jail  a  free  man.  I've  tried  in  every  way 
— by  bribery  and  everything — but  his 
brother  will  not  touch  it.  He  seems 
afraid  of  that  old  trunk.  I'll  get  it,  how 
ever,  at  all  costs.  Are  you  with  me?" 

Hooker  was,  above  everything,  a  true 
bibliophile.  He  instantly  answered: 

uYes,  Colonel!  Go  the  limit.  I'll 
back  you." 

The  Colonel  without  another  word 
picked  up  his  hat  and  left  the  office. 

For  three  tedious  weeks  Hooker  heard 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     129 

no  more  of  the  book  or  of  his  curious 
friend,  the  Colonel.  The  whole  thing 
seemed  like  a  tale  woven  by  Poe  himself. 

Would  the  book,  if  it  ever  was  secured, 
turn  out  to  be  a  second  edition  and  worth 
less?  Booklovers,  after  the  strange  man 
ner  of  their  kind,  only  cherish  the  first,  the 
earliest  issue,  in  the  same  state  as  it  came 
from  the  master's  hand,  unrevised  and 
with  all  the  errors  uncorrected.  They  do 
not  care  for  new  and  more  elegant  edi 
tions.  Hooker  grew  restless  as  the  weeks 
rolled  by,  and  still  no  Colonel. 

One  morning,  as  he  was  looking  over 
his  mail,  a  gentleman  was  announced. 
Then,  tottering  into  the  office,  with  his 
arm  in  a  sling  and  a  patch  over  his  left 
eye,  came  the  gallant  Colonel. 

"Why,  Colonel,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  sir." 

"But  your  arm  and  your — " 

"That's  my  affair,  Mr.  Hooker.  I've 
come  to  secure  the  reward  of  my  labors. 


130    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

I've  got  the  book,"  he  said  in  triumph, — 
"I  told  you  I'd  get  it." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Here  in  my  pocket.  Look  at  it.  It's 
a  superb  copy!" 

The  Colonel  laid  before  the  astonished 
eyes  of  Richard  Hooker  the  priceless  first 
edition  of  Poe's  marvelous  story.  It  was 
in  the  original  brown  printed  wrappers, 
just  as  it  was  published.  With  trembling 
hands  he  grasped  the  book;  he  turned  the 
first  page  and  gasped.  A  startled  cry 
broke  from  his  lips.  The  Colonel  at  once 
noticed  his  pallor.  He  did  not  dream 
that  an  old  book  would  affect  even  the 
most  ardent  bibliophile  in  this  manner. 
In  all  his  experience  of  forty  years  he 
had  never  seen  anyone  so  overcome  at  the 
sight  of  a  dingy  pamphlet. 

There,  upon  the  title-page,  Hooker 
read  the  tender  inscription  written  many 
generations  ago,  with  which  the  most  im 
aginative  of  American  poets  had  pre- 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     131 

sented  his  greatest  story  to  his  loving  wife. 
It  was  his  own  copy,  returned  like  bread 
upon  the  waters.  Hooker  was  speechless. 
He  went  over  to  his  check  book  and 
handed  the  Colonel  the  equivalent  of 
three  thousand  dollars.  The  Colonel  re 
tired,  murmuring  his  thanks. 

The  book  lay  upon  Hooker's  desk. 
Here  was  a  new  problem,  worthy  of  M. 
Dupin  himself.  Question  after  question 
came  into  his  excited  mind  to  depart  un 
answered.  Who  had  stolen  it?  and  how? 
Why  had  it  been  taken?  How  had  Tom- 
linson  secured  it?  and  what,  above  all,  had 
it  to  do  with  Marie  Perrin? 

Hooker  remained  there,  gazing  at  the 
pamphlet  for  hours.  It  fascinated  him 
horribly.  The  luncheon  hour  went  by 
and  still  he  sat  staring  intently  at  its  faded 
covers.  Would  he  ever  solve  the  riddle? 

His  mind  was  still  at  work  on  the  prob 
lem  when  he  was  interrupted  by  his  sec 
retary. 


132    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"It's  closing  time,  sir.  Is  there  any 
thing  you  want  before  I  go?" 

"Nothing,  John,  thank  you." 

The  secretary  turned  to  depart!  He 
drew  back  suddenly. 

"The  book!  Mr.  Hooker,  the  book! 
Where  did  you  get  that!" 

Robert  Hooker  looked  at  his  confiden 
tial  assistant.  His  face  was  the  color  of 
the  whitest  parchment.  His  breath  came 
in  gasps  and  cold  drops  of  perspiration 
were  visible  upon  his  forehead. 

"I  bought  it  to-day,"  said  Hooker, 
quietly.  "It  once  belonged  to  me — and 
Marie  Perrin." 

"She  was  my—" 

John  Lawrence  did  not  finish  the  sen 
tence;  his  face  was  twitching  and  he  was 
evidently  suffering  from  the  keenest  ner 
vous  excitement. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  John,"  said  Hooker 
kindly.  "You  seem  to  know  something 
of  it." 


"I  do,  Mr.  Hooker.  You'll  forgive 
me,  won't  you?  I  didn't  mean  to  do  any 
thing  wrong." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  years  ago,  on  your  return  from 
Europe,  you  questioned  me  about  that 
book.  I  was  the  only  one  who  had  access 
to  the  safe  and  knew  the  combination.  I 
told  you  I  knew  nothing  about  it — that 
perhaps  it  had  been  mislaid  before  your 
departure  for  London.  I  lied,  for  I  had 
taken  it.  I'd  no  intention  of  stealing  it; 
I  did  not  even  know  it  was  particularly 
valuable.  I  read  the  story  one  day  when 
I  was  alone,  with  no  work  to  do.  It  was 
the  best  tale  I'd  ever  read.  I  was  ab 
sorbed  by  it.  I  could  not  get  the  horrible 
plot  out  of  my  head." 

"Yes,  John,  go  on.  Where  does  Marie 
come  in?" 

"I  was  engaged  to  her.  I  had  known 
her  for  years.  She  came  from  Mont- 
pelier,  Vermont,  where  we  both  were 


134    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

born.  One  day  I  told  her  of  the  story. 
She  wanted  to  read  it.  Not  thinking  it 
any  harm,  I  loaned  it  to  her.  She 
stopped  for  it  one  evening  on  her  way 
home.  I  never  saw  her  after  that.  I 
tried  every  way  to  find  her,  without  avail. 
She  had  disappeared  from  her  rooms  on 
Eighth  Street  and  I  never  heard  of  her 
again  until  the  frightful  news  came  out 
Detectives  came  to  see  me.  My  name 
was  in  the  papers  once  or  twice  at  the 
time,  and  the  questions  they  asked  me 
were  terrible.  I  proved  an  alibi;  they 
had  fixed  the  crime  on  Tomlinson,  who, 
unknown  to  me,  was  uppermost  in  her  af 
fections.  It  was  a  bitter  awakening. 
I've  never  been  the  same  since.  I  think 
of  her  every  night  of  my  life — I've  now 
told  you  all  and  I  shall  resign  and  leave 
you  at  once.  You  can  have  no  more  need 
of  me." 

"Stay,  John.     I  forgive  you,     You've 


suffered  enough.     Go  home — and  come 
down  to-morrow,  as  usual." 

The  book  still  lay  upon  the  desk.  This 
time  he  would  take  it  home  to  keep  it  in 
his  library  among  his  most  valuable  pos 
sessions.  For  surely  it  was  the  most  in 
teresting  copy  of  the  "Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue"  in  existence!  Hooker  turned 
the  leaves  to  see  whether,  after  its  wander 
ings,  all  the  pages  were  intact — "collat 
ing"  it,  as  bibliophiles  love  to  term  this 
delightful  occupation.  Yes,  it  was  per 
fect — just  as  when  it  had  so  mysteriously 
disappeared  years  ago.  But,  hold, — 
what  were  the  brown,  reddish  finger 
marks  on  the  back  cover?  Hooker  did 
not  have  to  be  told  that  it  was  the  life- 
blood  of  poor  Marie  Perrin. 


THE  GREAT  DISCOVERY 

HE  was  considered  by  all  his  friends 
thrice  a  fool.  First,  he  was  en 
gaged  to  be  married;  second,  he  was  a 
speculator  in  stocks;  and  third,  he  was  a 
book-lover.  Some  condoned  the  first  of 
fence,  others  pardoned  the  second,  which 
was  considered  a  weakness,  and  all  uni 
versally  condemned  the  last! 

John  Libro  had  money  on  July  28th, 
1914.  On  July  29  he  did  not  possess  a 
cent.  The  War  caused  it  all.  When 
New  Haven  dropped  to  fifty  and  Read 
ing  to  seventy,  John  Libro's  fortune 
shrank  with  them  and  he  was  left  high 
and  dry  with  nothing  but  the  advice  of  his 
friends,  a  little  jewelry,  some  clothing, 
and  a  few  old  books! 

Libro  went  home,  made  an  inventory, 
136 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     137 

and  counted  the  change  in  his  pocket. 
He  was  thirty-five  years  old,  big,  healthy, 
good-natured,  and  irrepressible.  Here 
he  was  face  to  face  with  starvation.  He 
grimly  smiled,  for  it  was  at  any  rate  a  new 
experience.  He  sat  down  by  the  little 
bookcase,  forgot  his  cares  and  his  credit 
ors,  and  took  out  his  beloved  friends.  He 
tenderly  fondled  the  first  edition  of  Elia, 
dipped  into  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and 
took  solace  from  the  "Pleasures  of  Mem 
ory."  When  he  looked  at  his  watch,  it 
was  eight  o'clock.  Two  hours  had  glided 
away  in  the  company  of  his  morocco-clad 
companions. 

It  was  then  that  he  thought  of  Ethel. 
He  would  go  to  her  at  once  and  unfold  his 
story.  He  told  her  in  a  few  words  that 
he  was  ruined  and  could  not  marry  her. 
This  made  her  more  than  ever  determined 
to  marry  him.  She  loved  him  and  could 
not  allow  such  a  small  thing  as  money  to 
interfere  with  their  plans.  The  more  he 


138    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

insisted,  the  more  determined  she  became. 
At  last  they  reached  a  compromise — he 
would  put  the  matter  squarely  up  to  her 
father.  Mr.  Edwards  was  called  from 
his  study. 

"Mr.  Edwards,"  he  began,  "I  suppose 
you  read  of  what  happened  to-day  in  the 
stock-market— 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  Mr.  Edwards  re 
plied  quickly,  "what  of  it?" 

"Well,  I  was  long  on  New  Haven  and 
Reading— 

"Speculating  again,  have  you?" 

"Yes,  and  I'm  broke,  and  Ethel  would 
not  allow  me  to  break  off  the  engagement 
until  I  spoke  to  you." 

"She  is  a  foolish  girl.  You  are  re 
leased,  and  I  think  it  a  good  thing  for  my 
daughter." 

"Perhaps  some  day  when  I  go  to 
work—  "  poor  Libro  pleaded. 

"Work!    Work!"    retorted    Mr.    Ed- 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     139 

wards,  "who  ever  heard  of  a  stock  broker 
who  worked!" 

Without  another  word  they  parted — 
and  Libro  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
to  pay,  with  many  kisses,  his  farewell  to 
Ethel. 

When  at  last  he  was  on  the  street  he 
thought  that  poverty  was  the  most  terrible 
thing  in  the  world — it  destroyed  in  a  mo 
ment  love  and  happiness.  And  yet  he 
was  no  longer  thrice  a  fool — for  he  was 
not  engaged,  he  was  no  longer  a  specu 
lator,  and,  of  course,  he  must  cease  to  be  a 
collector.  While  he  was  meditating 
about  this  curious  effect  of  poverty,  which 
had  changed  over  night  a  fool  into  a  phil 
osopher,  a  beggar  approached  him.  He 
felt  in  his  pockets  and  handed  him  a  quar 
ter.  Libro  then  went  on  his  way,  for  the 
humor  of  the  incident  appealed  to  him. 

The  next  day  he  tried  to  secure  a  posi 
tion.  He  asked  all  his  friends,  who  could 
do  nothing  "on  account  of  the  war." 


140    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

He  then  tried  the  department  stores,  the 
banks,  the  hotels,  the  theatres — every 
where.  No  one  would  give  a  position  to 
a  stock-broker.  Mr.  Edwards  was  right! 

But  he  must  live — the  situation  had  be 
come  not  so  fantastic.  He  would  sell 
everything — his  father's  watch,  his  jew 
elry,  his  clothing,  everything  but  his 
books.  Those  he  would  not  part  with. 

On  the  corner  of  Thirty-fifth  and 
Broadway  was  a  pawnshop — he  had 
passed  it  hundreds  of  times,  but  had  never 
thought  of  entering.  Half  of  it  was  a 
store  where  the  pledges  were  sold;  each 
piece  of  jewelry  had  a  huge  white  card  on 
which  ran  some  such  legend — "Former 
price  $1,000 — now  $400."  The  other 
half  of  the  shop  was  where  the  real  "busi 
ness"  was  conducted,  and  it  was  here  that 
its  patrons  lost  their  patrimony.  Libro 
was  ashamed  to  enter;  he  hesitated  two  or 
three  times  and  then  returned  to  his  rooms. 
He  picked  up  old  "Omar"  in  its  paper 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     141 

covers,  and  with  the  imprint  of  Bernard 
Quaritch,  1859,  for  it  was  a  first  edition 
and  much  beloved.  He  then  read  of 
wines  and  the  joys  of  heaven — he  could 
not  afford  to  buy  those  full  orient  vintages, 
but,  nevertheless,  in  the  quietude  of  his 
rooms,  he  drank  deep. 

Two  days  later,  with  the  courage  of 
hunger,  Libro  visited  the  locality  of  this 
American  Mont  de  Piete.  But  he  was 
again  afraid  to  enter.  He  seemed  to  see 
all  his  friends  near  him,  watching  him. 
He  thought  they  smiled  when  they  ac 
knowledged  his  trembling  salute. 
Broadway  seemed  to  contain  myriads  of 
his  acquaintances.  He  then  thought  with 
dread  of  the  interior  of  the  place,  with  its 
poor,  degraded,  perhaps  half-clothe'd  men 
and  women,  forced  to  pledge  their  last 
precious  possession.  He  walked  away, 
but  returned,  laughing  at  his  cowardice. 
This  was  also  to  be  a  new  experience.  He 
resolved  to  walk  quickly  up  to  the  door 


and  enter  before  anyone  would  notice 
him. 

He  received  a  shock  when  he  passed  the 
portals.  If  he  observed  acquaintances  on 
the  outside,  here  on  the  inside,  he  met 
friends!  All  Wall  Street  seemed  to  be 
gathered.  It  was  more  like  a  meeting  of 
the  Down  Town  Club.  "Hello,  Jack! 
Why,  if  that's  not  Libro!"  and  "The  Baby 
Member!"  greeted  him  from  all  sides. 
Before  the  well-worn  counter  was  the 
flower  of  New  York's  financial  set,  pawn 
ing  their  diamonds  and  their  good-repute. 
The  wire  houses  and  the  bucket  shops  and 
the  legitimate  offices  were  all  closed,  and, 
by  a  marvelous  change,  as  in  the  twink 
ling  of  an  eye,  the  principals,  and  not 
their  customers,  were  putting  up  "more 
margin!" 

John  Libro  entered  properly  into  the 
spirit  of  the  occasion.  He  laughed  with 
the  others  when  one  received  $50  on  a 
diamond  ring  that  cost  two  hundred.  He 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     143 

roared  in  harmony  with  the  crowd  when 
one  well  known  Broadway  habitue  ob 
jected  to  the  twelve  dollars  proffered  on  a 
gold  watch.  It  was  all  too  funny  for  any 
thing!  It  was  now  his  turn.  He  felt 
sick  as  he  took  from  his  tie  an  emerald 
pin,  the  gift  of  his  mother. 

"How  much  do  you  want  on  this?" 
asked  the  proprietor.  It  was  a  cold  voice 
which  went  through  him  like  steel.  He 
took  an  instant  dislike  to  this  man  who 
was  the  proprietor  himself,  Geoffrey 
Steinman,  a  king  among  his  brethren  of 
this  old  and  honorable  profession. 
"Seventy-five  dollars,"  said  Libro. 
"This  is  no  time  for  jokes,"  Steinman 
retorted.  "I  shall  advance  you  fifteen 
dollars,  and  not  a  cent  more." 

"But  it  cost  a  hundred  at  Tiffany's!" 

"Fifteen  dollars — my  time  is  valuable." 

It  was  the  same  old  story.     John  Libro 

received  the  money  and  departed.     He 

was  bitter  at  the  world  and  particularly 


144    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

at  the  cold,  keen  gentleman  who  presided 
over  the  destinies  of  the  shop  with  the 
glittering  windows.  He  grew  bitter 
when  his  watch  (his  father's  gift) ,  his  fob, 
his  gold  card-case,  his  medals  and  finally 
his  overcoat  went  into  the  tiger's  maw. 
And  every  time  he  remonstrated  with 
him,  cursed  him,  or  implored  him, 
Steinman  remained  the  same — heartless, 
brusque,  cutting,  satirical  and,  what  was 
worse  than  all,  polite.  "Damn  his  polite 
ness,"  gasped  Libro — "I  can  do  nothing 
at  all  with  him  when  he  is  polite!" 

This  hate  ripened  and  broke  out  anew 
when  each  article  was  pawned.  "If  I 
could  only  get  even" — he  exclaimed  hope 
lessly.  He  had  not  a  chance  in  the  world, 
he  thought.  For  a  thousand  times  he  said 
goodby  to  a  dear  memento  of  his  parents 
or  a  remembrance  of  his  youth.  At  last 
he  had  pledged  everything. 

Libro  had  not  heard  from  Ethel  for 
months,  although  it  seemed  like  ages  to 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     145 

him!  On  the  cold  afternoon  that  he  had 
pawned  his  overcoat  he  went  to  his  rooms 
and  thought  if  it  would  not  be  better  to 
end  it  all,  quietly  and  decently.  He 
thought  for  a  long  time.  He  went  to  the 
little  bookcase  and  picked  up  an  old  edi 
tion  of  Boethius  on  the  "Consolations  of 
Philosophy,"  and  only  the  title  consoled 
him.  He,  however,  found  many  long- 
tried  friends,  and  their  broad  margins  and 
blue  and  crimson  morocco  covers  made 
him  forget  that  man  was  made  to  mourn. 
His  first  editions  of  the  poets  made  him 
oblivious  to  his  condition  and  he  lived 
once  again  on  high  Parnassus. 

Libro  was  looking  over  the  Poems  of 
John  Keats,  published  in  1817,  when  a 
catalogue  slip  fell  out.  On  the  slip  it 
stated  that  a  copy  had  once  sold  for  five 
hundred  dollars!  This,  then,  was  meat 
and  drink  for  him!  He  would  sell  it! 
He  could  live  for  months  on  poor  Keats. 
But  his  soul  revolted.  He  was  not  a  can- 


146    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

nibal.  He  could  not  live  off  the  flesh  of 
his  own. 

But  at  last  he  was  compelled  to  return 
to  Steinman.  He  wrapped  up  the  pre 
cious  volume  tenderly,  affectionately. 
He  took  it  bravely,  for  was  he  not  offer 
ing  at  the  sacrifice  the  dearest  of  his  pos 
sessions?  He  gently,  timidly,  unwrapt 
before  the  pawnbroker  the  little  volume, 
awaiting  expectantly  the  admiration  that 
always  followed  its  appearance.  But, 
alas,  he  was  not  among  book-lovers. 

"No  books!"  exclaimed  Steinman. 
"I've  got  stuck  on  them  once  or  twice  be 
fore.  Not  one  cent!" 

"You, — you—  but  Libro  could  not 
find  words  to  explain  his  hatred.  He 
would  have  killed  him  had  he  a  weapon 
near. 

"Don't  you  know  that  book  has  sold  for 
five  hundred  dollars  at  auction,"  ex 
claimed  Libro. 

"Then  sell  it  at  auction,"  replied  Stein- 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS    147 

man,  politely.  As  the  poor  and  crushed 
bibliophile  turned  to  go,  the  proprietor 
interrupted  him. 

"Wait.  If  you  are  so  interested  in  that 
old  plunder,  perhaps  you  would  like  to 
see  this." 

Steinman  held  in  his  hands  a  dingy  old 
volume.  Libro  could  not  resist.  An  un 
known  force  compelled  him  to  look  at  it. 
With  hatred  consuming  him,  he  never 
theless,  like  a  true  bibliophile,  received 
from  his  enemy  the  book.  He  opened  it. 

"Why,  they  are  Shakespeare  quartos!" 
he  almost  shouted,  and  then  stopped  sud 
denly. 

The  proprietor  was  looking  at  him  nar 
rowly.  Libro's  heart  had  almost  stopped 
beating.  There  was  the  long  lost  quarto 
of  "Titus  Andronicus,"  1594,  and  a  per 
fect  first  edition  of  "Hamlet!"  There 
were  others  in  the  volume,  a  veritable 
treasure  trove.  It  was,  in  truth,  a  great 
discovery! 


148     THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

"What's  it  worth?"  said  Steinman. 

"Something  to  a  collector,"  replied 
Libro,  honestly:  "nothing  to  you." 

"Well,  if  you  know  anyone  who  wants 
the  old  thing  he  can  have  it  for  ten  dol 
lars.  I  once  advanced  that  amount  on  it. 
Since  then  I  say,  No  Books!" 

John  Libro  by  a  superhuman  effort  con 
trolled  himself. 

"Steinman,  I  need  money  for  food. 
You  already  have  everything  valuable  I 
possess, — but  this." 

He  took  from  his  finger  a  ring.  It  had 
been  his  mother's  wedding  ring.  It  was 
the  last  that  remained  to  him  of  his  par 
ents'  legacy. 

"How  much  will  you  give  me  on  this?" 
he  said,  trembling.  His  very  life  de 
pended  upon  Steinman's  answer.  He 
held  his  breath. 

"A  little  less  than  gold-value,"  said 
Steinman.  He  threw  it  carelessly  on  the 
scales. 


"Ten  dollars  and  thirty-seven  cents." 
Without  further  ado  Steinman  counted 
out  the  money  and  Libro  departed.  He, 
however,  went  out  one  door  and  came  in 
by  another.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  entered  the  half  of  the  establish 
ment  where  the  unredeemed  merchandise 
is  sold.  On  this  side  he  was  a  patron  and 
not  to  be  patronized. 

"How  much  for  that  old  book?"  said 
Libro  boldly. 

"Ten  dollars,"  answered  Steinman  in  a 
surprised  tone.  This  was  a  new  dodge, 
a  customer  pledging  one  article  to  obtain 
money  to  purchase  another! 

It  was  Libro's  turn  now ;  but  he  was  not 
used  to  the  game.     "I  shall  give  you  five 
dollars.     Not  a  cent  more." 
"No.     Ten  dollars  or  nothing." 
"All  right.     I'll  take  it ;  wrap  it  up." 
He  counted  out  the  money  and  left. 
Steinman   felt  uneasy.     He   thought  he 
saw  the  flicker  of  an  unh/oly  smile  on 


150    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

Libro's  face,  as  he  passed  through  the 
swinging  doors. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  state  that 
Libro  sold  the  book — the  only  book  he 
ever  parted  with — for  a  fabulous  sum — 
more  than  its  weight  in  gold, — and  for 
many  thousands  of  dollars.  A  noted  col 
lector  purchased  it  immediately,  and  it  is 
now  the  chief  attraction  of  his  wonderful 
library. 

With  the  money  jingling  in  his  pocket 
he  returned  to  the  scene  of  his  former 
misery.  He  was  to  redeem  his  pledges 
with  the  broker's  own  money. 

"Steinman,"  he  said,  "collect  all  my 
things.  I  shall  pay  what  I  owe  and  take 
them  with  me." 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Libro,  on 
your  return  to  fortune,"  replied  Steinman 
affably. 

"I  want  to  thank  you,  Steinman." 

"Thank  me!    Why?" 

"Because  of  the  old  book,"  said  Libro, 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     151 

politely.     "I    sold    it   to-day   for   thirty 
thousand  dollars!" 

In  a  joyous  mood  John  Libro  called 
upon  Ethel  Edwards.  The  story  of  "the 
Shakespeare  Find"  was  in  the  evening's 
papers.  No  one  was  more  glad  to  see 
him  than  Ethel's  father,  who  welcomed 
him  like  an  old  friend.  That  night  he 
mused  as  he  walked  home:  "I  am  no 
longer  a  stock-broker,  I  am  engaged  to 
Ethel,  and  I  can  still  collect  books.  I  am 
a  fool;  and  I  glory  in  it  I" 


THE  FIFTEEN  JOYS  OF 
MARRIAGE 

HE  was  showing  the  distinguished 
guest  through  his  magnificent 
library.  He  exhibited  with  pride  his 
treasures,  telling  an  interesting  tale  about 
this  volume,  and  his  merry  adventures 
about  that.  In  glass-covered  exhibition 
cases  were  displayed  some  of  his  greater 
rarities  and  the  colors  of  their  morocco 
coverings  gleamed  and  glowed  in  the 
light.  At  one  end  of  the  spacious  room 
was  a  case  with  bronze  mountings,  and 
within  reposed  a  volume  bound  in  old 
olive  levant,  powdered  with  the  bees  and 
other  devices  so  often  used  by  Nicolas 
Eve,  binder  to  his  Majesty  Francis  the 
First.  The  visitor  asked  about  the  vol 
ume  that  was  so  superbly  housed,  and 
152 


begged  Mr.  Henry  Stirling  to  give  its  his 
tory. 

"Pray  examine  it,"  he  replied,  taking 
the  volume  with  the  greatest  care  from  the 
case.  On  its  back,  in  letters  of  gold,  mel 
lowed  by  age,  was  its  title :  "Les  Quinze 
Joyes  de  Manage."  "Ah,  that  is  indeed 
rare!"  exclaimed  the  visitor,  "and  its  bind 
ing  is  marvelous.  But  hold,  it  is  rubbed 
in  one  corner.  Some  vandal  did  that!  It 
is  a  shame  such  a  treasure  should  have 
been  used  so  damnably!" 

"It  is  for  that  reason,  sir,"  Stirling  re 
plied,  "that  it  is  my  most  beloved  volume. 
I  value  it  above  all  the  books  in  my  li 
brary.  This  is  its  history: — 

"Some  fifteen  years  ago  I  met  at  a  house 
party  a  lady  to  whom  I  was  instantly  at 
tracted.  She  was  handsome,  with  high 
coloring,  and  the  most  glorious  hair.  We 
met  often  thereafter,  and  a  year  later  she 
became  my  wife.  We  lived  for  some 
time  most  happily  together.  Occa- 


154    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

sionally  we  had  petty  disputes  that  al 
ways  ended  in  a  victory  for  both  of  us! 

"About  twelve  years  ago,  attracted  by 
a  great  book  sale,  I  started  to  form  this 
library,  which  has  been  the  passion  of  my 
life.  I  read  all  the  catalogues,  became 
skilled  in  bibliography,  lived  in  the  book 
shops;  spent  all  my  time  collating  and 
going  over  my  precious  volumes.  In  the 
evenings,  instead  of  talking  to  my  wife 
about  the  Ives'  coming  ball,  or  a  problem 
in  bridge,  or  the  newest  shades  of  silk,  I 
pored  over  the  catalogues  which  came  to 
me  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  My  wife 
said  nothing  at  first,  but  when  one  book 
case  was  added  to  another,  crowding  out 
the  little  Sheraton  writing  tables,  and  the 
bijou  cabinets,  she  objected  mildly,  Why 
bring  all  this  trash  into  the  house?  And 
besides  you  never  read  them.  I  suppose 
they  don't  cost  you  much.  I  loaned  a  few 
to  one  of  my  friends  yesterday.' 

"I  winced ;  but  said  nothing. 


THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS     155 

"Gradually  I  became  absorbed  in  the 
pursuit.  Other  collectors — men  after  my 
own  heart — rich,  and  always  wearing  the 
oddest  clothes — so  my  good  wife  said — 
came  to  visit  me.  We  would  stay  up  far 
into  the  night  relating  our  experiences, 
telling  wonderful  stories  of  how  we  se 
cured  our  rarest  volumes,  and  remarking 
about  the  prices,  which  seemed  always 
soaring!  My  wife  knew  at  last  that  these 
old  books  cost  a  great  deal  of  money;  that 
I  would  spend  a  hundred  dollars  for  an 
old  almanac  or  an  Aldus,  while  I  objected 
to  the  forty  dollars  she  paid  for  a  hat. 
She  said  she  would  stand  it  no  longer.  I 
remonstrated,  but  in  vain.  She  remarked 
that  I  had  changed — that  I  no  longer 
loved  her.  This  was  not  true;  I  loved 
her  as  I  always  did — but  I  would  not  al 
low  anyone  to  dictate  to  me. 

"However,  I  displayed  no  longer  the 
little  morocco  things  that  I  had  bought, 
but  brought  them  home  surreptitiously, 


placing  them  in  the  corners  of  the  book 
case.  I  concealed  them  in  my  news 
paper  of  an  evening,  or  had  them  sent 
home  when  my  wife  was  out  shopping,  or 
visiting  her  friends.  Sometimes  she 
would  catch  me  ftagrante  delicto,  as  I 
would  stealthily  remove  my  beloved  from 
its  brown  wrapping-paper;  or  catch  me 
napping  with  a  first  edition  that  she  was 
sure  she  had  not  seen  before. 

"The  situation  grew  intolerable.  I 
could  not  bear  to  have  some  one  who  had 
promised  to  obey  me,  taunting  me  at  every 
turn,  remorselessly  dropping  an  Elzevir 
on  the  floor,  or  shattering  my  nerves  by 
insolently  showing  me  a  receipted  bill  for 
a  presentation  copy  of  'Endymion.'  I 
tried  to  be  gentle  with  her,  to  reason  with 
her,  to  tell  her  what  a  scholarly  thing  I 
was  doing, — but  it  was  of  no  avail.  She 
became  actually  jealous  of  my  books. 
She  looked  with  distrust  at  every  parcel 
that  arrived ;  she  was  suspicious  of  every- 


thing  that  had  the  appearance  of  a  book. 

"At  first  she  was  only  mildly  oppres 
sive;  she  now  became  severe,  scolding 
continually,  making  my  life  a  burden. 
She  said  my  love  of  books  was  unnatural, 
wicked,  unspeakable.  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer;  I  could  not  live  with  a  woman 
who  treated  me  in  so  cruel  a  way. 
When  I  told  her  this  she  was  docile  at 
first,  but  the  fire  broke  out  anew  at  some 
new  victory  of  mine  in  the  auction  rooms, 
which  one  of  my  spiteful  friends  told  her 
about.  Matthews  was  always  jealous  of 
me,  because  I  had  more  courage  than  he 
and  snatched  the  uncut  'Comus'  from 
him  when  it  was  almost  within  his  grasp. 

"I  tried  no  longer  to  bear  with  my  wife 
— she  was  a  vixen,  a  mad  woman,  a  very 
devil.  I  resolved  to  divorce  her— but  on 
what  grounds?  I  could  not  think  of  a 
single  charge  that  could  be  placed  before 
a  jury, — American  juries  generally  con 
sisted  of  the  most  stupid  and  unimagina- 


158    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

tive  men.  My  wife  said  she  ought  to  se 
cure  the  action  on  the  grounds  of  infidel 
ity, — that  I  loved  my  first  folio  of  Shake 
speare  more  than  I  did  her! 

"Things  came  to  a  climax  at  last.  The 
famous  library  of  Richard  Appleton  was 
to  be  sold  at  auction.  I  was  intensely  ex 
cited,  as  you  can  imagine.  I  read  the 
catalogue  item  by  item,  word  by  word. 
I  marked  with  ink  the  things  I  most 
needed  and  determined  to  buy  a  few  ex 
quisite  volumes  even  at  the  risk  of  bank 
ruptcy.  And  there  was  'Les  Quinze 
Joyes  de  Manage,'  the  first  edition  in  the 
superb  binding  made  by  Nicolas  Eve  for 
Diane  de  Poitiers.  I  had  resolved  to 
purchase  it  many  years  ago  when  Apple- 
ton  wrested  it  from  me  at  the  Amherst 
sale.  I  had  even  waited  for  his  death 
knowing  it  would  again  come  upon  the 
market.  I  resolved  to  have  it  at  all  costs. 
The  eventful  day  arrived.  I  went  to  the 


159 

rooms  in  person.  The  little  volume 
started  at  one  hundred  dollars  and  rose  to 
three  thousand.  It  was  already  beyond 
my  means.  I  just  had  to  have  it.  I 
nodde'd.  There  was  no  other  bid. 

"I  drew  my  check  for  the  amount  and 
carried  it  home.  I  was  reading  it  in  the 
library  when  my  wife  entered.  I  cas 
ually,  in  an  unconcerned  way,  although 
my  heart  was  trembling,  placed  it  on  the 
table.  I  looked  at  my  wife.  Her  eyes 
were  flashing.  She  held  the  evening 
paper  on  which  I  could  read  the  head 
lines. — 'Rare  Book  brings  $3010.' 

"I  knew  the  storm  was  coming.  She 
said  I  was  an  ingrate,  a  dissipater  of  her 
fortune,  a  fool,  a  heartless  villain,  a — 

"She  went  no  further. 

"I  grabbed  the  first  thing  at  hand, — it 
was  'The  Fifteen  Joys  of  Marriage,' — 
and  threw  it  at  her  head.  It  struck  her 
arm  and  fell  upon  the  floor.  When  I 


160    THE  UNPUBLISHABLE  MEMOIRS 

stooped  to  pick  it  up,  noticing  the  poor, 
bruised,  broken  corner,  I  looked  about. 
My  wife  was  gone. 

"The  next  day  she  served  me  with  the 
papers  for  the  divorce  which  is  now  a 
cause  celebre. 

"At  last  I  was  free!" 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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PC'D  LD  URL 


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